


When a potion goes wrong

by Mycroffed, Winchester221B



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Potterlock - Fandom, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Catlock, Crossover, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 25,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroffed/pseuds/Mycroffed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester221B/pseuds/Winchester221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes to Hogwarts for yet another year of teaching Defence against the Dark Arts. He thinks it's going to be an avarage year, until he meets John Watson, teacher for the first time and professional Quidditchplayer who gave up his carreer after an accident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here's something we've been thinking about ever since I (Mycroffed) saw this tumblr post. We don't know if anyone has done this before, so if there are any similarities, it is purely a coincidence.  
> We will try to update this fic every wednesday c:  
> Enjoy!  
> The tumblr post: http://britsaar.tumblr.com/post/91230803875/i-wrote-it

Sherlock was sitting in the train, leaving for another year at Hogwarts. He taught Defence against the Dark Arts, but every year he wondered why he had agreed to do this. He hated kids and he hated teaching. But then he remembered. It paid rather good and he didn't have to worry about food or equipment, since the school took care of that. He only taught the students of the fifth year or up, so that was not enough to fill all his hours, so he had plenty of time to experiment.

Sherlock was looking forward to it. He had brought some eyes with him from home, over what Mycroft, his brother had been complaining for weeks. He wanted to put them in the microwave, but since they didn't have those at Hogwarts, he'd have to find another way.

Some kids passed his compartment, looking inside. As soon as they realised it was a teacher who was sitting inside, they ran along, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts, the way they should.

Only two students dared to interupt him. It were Sally Donovan, prefect of Gryffindor this year and Philip Anderson, prefect of Huffelpuff.

Oh God, Sherlock sighed. Why did I ever agree to making these two idiots prefect? They only asked stupid questions and okay, agreed, they'd never gotten in any trouble and tried to keep their friends out of it as well, but they didn't have the responsability it took to be a prefect. And Sherlock could know, after he'd been a Ravenclaw prefect. It had been six years now, since he had graduated from Hogwards. He'd been the first of his year, which was no surprise, neither to himself nor his family. Hogwarts had never been a school where the students bullied each other a lot - except for the Gryffindors and the Slytherins - but Sherlock had been bullied, even by people of his own house. They were supposed to protect him, accept him the way he was, but no, that had been one favour too much. And that was the reason he had declined being head of Ravenclaw this year. That and his 'friends' calling him freak. There were still a couple of people who called him that, most of them teachers, but a couple of Slytherins as well, passed down from their parents.

'Um, I'm sorry, can I sit here?'

Sherlock looked up, ready to snap at the student bold enough to ask to join him, but his face quickly softened when he saw someone who was in his midthirties, obviously a teacher, standing in the doorway.

'Of course,' Sherlock replied and he began to tidy his stuff that one way or another happened to be lying all over the seat in front of him.

'My name is John Watson,' the man said. 'I'll be teaching the Flying lessons and I'll be the Quidditch referee.'

'So, you know a lot about Quidditch, then,' Sherlock stated.

'I was a profesional Quidditch player for England.'

There was a silence. Sherlock embraced it of course, while he was deducing things about this man. He was young and fit, clearly a Quidditch player, like he said, probably a chaser. He was still young enough to play, but he had had an accident. It was fairly obvious from the way he shrugged his shoulder from time to time, like it had been dislocated or even broken. That and his walking stick. He still cared about his team because the trunk he had been dragging along was full of supporting stickers of his former team. He was not very rich, judging by the state of his robes, his trunk and his wand. They were all old and had been repaired multiple times, but the wand had been snapped in two, quite recently, not more than two or three weeks ago, going by the loosening of the tape around it, and he still hadn't bought a new one. That meaned either attatchment, a certain sentiment or that he could not afford a new wand. The fact that it was tucked away in his robe, almost falling out without John noticing it, confirmed the 'not that rich' theory.

John's hand went through his hair. Sherlock noticed there was no ring, even though he must have had enough girls and women to choose from as a chaser.

John was nervous. Ask him anytime to jump on a broom and fly around throwing balls at other men - Sherlock hated Quidditch, he saw no point in it - but teaching in front of actual young wizards, actually listening? That was a complete different adventure and John wondered if he was ready for it.

Then Sherlock remembered where he had seen this man before. He had been the Gryffidor prefect when he joined the first year at Hogwarts. They had never had a lot of contact, but somehow, John had left quite an impression behind. Sherlock remembered looking up to him, like he was some kind of hero - now he knew better, heroes did not exist and even if they did, he would certainly not be one of them - and he had adored him. Mycroft had told him multiple times that he should not have a Gryffindor as a rolemodel, but a Slytherin, one of Mycroft's house. Sherlock secretly suspected Mycroft had been jalous off all the attention he gave John.

Sherlock stared outside. The familiar scenery passed by once more, telling him they were close to Hogwarts.

'We're almost there,' he said, even though he realised John must have known that as well.

But no, the former Quidditch player had been lost in his thoughts and was surprised that they would be arriving soon.

'What are we as teachers supposed to do when we arrive?' John asked. 'Do we take the carriages as well or do we travel by boat?'

'Neither. We go to Hogsmead and go by Floopowder. It's easier, a lot quicker and when it rains it's a lot dryer. No more standing in the rain, waiting for a carriage to arrive and then sitting on top of it, getting soaking wet.'

'Good.' John nodded, content with that arrangement.

As soon as the train stopped, John jumped off of it, wading through all the students at the platform. Sherlock stayed where he was until most of the students had gone. No more pushing, no more touching - imagine all the bacteria he could catch in a crowd of teenagers. When he had gotten to the place to be, John had only just arrived, breathing hard from pushing away all the eager students.

'Next time, I'm going to wait as well,' he sighed. 'Much easier and less effort. Why didn't you tell me to wait?'

'Sort of first trip tradition.' Sherlock hated it, but the only reason he participated in it was because he had been there as well, wading through.

Both men took a bit of Floopowder in one of their hands and they both called out to be in their own living quarters.

'Office of the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher, Hogwarts,' Sherlock yelled very carefully. After arriving where he wanted to be, he found his trunks had already been brought here, just as... John's?

What was John's luggage doing here? It must have been some sort of mistake?

When Sherlock turned around to march to the Head Master's office, he saw John standing in his fireplace.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've decided to upload twice a week now, once on wednesday and once on friday, I hope you enjoy it. x Mycroffed  
> And feel free to leave a comment below :) x Winchester221B

Sherlock could not believe his eyes. These were his quarters and he was not going to share them with some guy who happened to have had an accident on a broom. His injury wasn't even real! It was psychosomatic, even someone who knew nothing about it could see that. The only way to heal the damn guy was to put him on a broom and let him play again.

'You better not get too comfortable, Watson,' Sherlock snapped. 'I'm going to our Head Master right now and i'm going to put it right. Prepare yourself for another room. I get the room on the ground floor, that was the only reason I agreed to come and teach here.'

'Well, sir - what's your name?'

'Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.'

'Well, Mr Holmes. I'm injured. The only way I can teach here is when I don't have to climb any stairs. Do you think I like this? Heh? Do you think I like being disabled for the rest of my life and never being able to play Quidditch again?'

Sherlock shrugged.

'What if you got injured? Heh? What if you got injured doing what you love most but because of thet injury you can't do that think you love most anymore?'

'Then climb on a broom and play Quidditch again.'

'What? Did you just miss the point I was trying to make?'

Not as bright as Sherlock expected. But boy, he had a temper. He was still going to the Head Master, no matter what this John Watson said. He was going to complain untill he got his room back without the roommate.

'You have a Post Traumatic Stress Syndrom, right?' Sherlock asked.

'Yeah, what about it?'

'And your doctor said you were going to have this limp for the rest of your life?'

'Get to the point, you know the answer.'

'He's wrong. Fire him.' With those words, Sherlock left the room, leaving a baffled John behind.

*

John was annoyed. God what an annoying dick did he have as a roommate. The Head Master had told him he'd have a roommate and that he could be a little difficult from time to time, but this wasn't 'difficult' anymore, he was just being an utter and complete dollophead. An incredible assbutt.

He turned to look around the rooms. It was rather nice, he understood why Sherlock didn't want to share it. It had a sitting room, with two comfy chairs and a sofa, two desks which were completely covered in papers about school and experiments? So the man liked himself some experiment? He could not be half that bad if he liked to experiment. John had spent half of his life in a lab, studying to be a doctor, while halftime playing as a professional Chaser, so he knew what all the machines, who were not yet unpacked, could do. And he appreciated it. A man obsessed with experiments was curious about everything: about science, not only wizard science, but mostly human - he hated the word 'muggle'. He had yet to find an alternative, but in the meantime he used 'human' to indicate 'not wizard' - and about life in general. No wonder he could see with a few glances that he had a PTSS.

On the other side, there was a smaller room, which contained exactly one table and a couple of chairs. This table was still covered in the blood of last year's experiments. He could actually picture Sherlock here, talking to nobody but himself, looking through his microscope, doing test nobody in the Wizard World cares about because they have magic. But not Sherlock, no he really was interested. And nothing would stop him.

John decided to give him another chance. No way the Head Master was throwing him out of here, he had promised he could have this room. If Sherlock wanted to make a fuz about it, it was his choice. He would be embarassed when he would hear that John was right and that if he did not want a roommate that he would have to move out. John smiled as he looked around the room once more. Yes, this could be nice. Very nice indeed. 

* 

'I demand that John Watson gets another room.'

'Sherlock.'

'No, it is my room and nobody is going to steal it from me, expecially not a guy with a psychosomatic limp. He could be out there, on he Quidditch field, playing that stupid sport abd I don't even care as long as he's gone from my room!' Shouted Sherlock. The paintings of the previous Head Masters of Hogwarts looked disapprovingly at him, but he couldn't care less. He was going to get his room back.

'Sherlock, you know I can't do that.'

'And why not?' Sherlock asked.

'Because we promised. How else is he going to get to his rooms? All the other rooms for teachers are upstairs.'

'I don't care how he gets there. Even if he'd fly a broom upstairs, inside the castle I still would not care.'

'Sherlock, no it's not possible.' The tone had changed from polite to dealing with another child, one of the many in this school.

'But...' Sherlock protested.

'No! Or do you want me to call your brother?'

Sherlock's eyes widened for a second. How dared he use his brother against him! He may have a minor position in the Ministry of Magic, but that did not mean they could use him as a card to keep 'the mad Professor Holmes' in check. He would not allow it. But for now, he deemed it wiser to retreat.

Annoyed with the Head Master, with John, with his brother and with life in general, Sherlock strolled through the corridors. he kicked every pebble he encountered and all the students, sensing his bad mood, went out of his way. The only students brave enough to look him in the eye were first years, who were just adjusting. Had they been sorted yet? Yes, one of them was wearing a green and silver tie and another one a gold and red one.

Before he realised it, Sherlock found himself in front of his chambers again. Having decided he would tolerate John for now, until he had a better plan, he entered the room.

'You want a cup?' asked John lightheartedly, like nothing had happened between the two men earlier. 'I just made some.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yeah, sure.' He sipped his tea. Maybe this guy wasn't so bad after all. Nobody who makes such good tea could be a bad guy. Plus, in his time here, John had been in Gryffindor, so there was some more proof that John can't be anything but a nice guy.

The silence that fell was more comfortable than the one in the train. In this one, there was tea involved. Both men sipped their tea quietly, enjoying the warmth after a travel through the middle of nowhere.

'So, about earlier,' John began.

'I'm sorry, I just hadn't been informed about this situation and you and.. Er..' Sherlock wasn't really serious about his sorry, but it was a good new start. After all he would have to be roommates with this guy until he cured his limp.

'No, it's okay. I understand.' John smiled at him. 'But what I really wanted to say was: you said something about my leg, that my injury was fake?'

'Yeah, it's partly psychosomatic. Didn't your therapist tell you?'

'Eum, I've never had a therapist.' John looked uncomfortably around the room, not really knowing what to do with himself. 'After the doctor of my former team had deemed me unfit for playing, I was almost immediately sacked from the team, they left me with the bare minimum for a pension. This is my fifth job since the incident and...' A frog had formed in John's throat. He did not like to talk about this. People with their sentiment.

None the less, he put his arm around John. He looked surprised, but he made no effort to remove it.

'John,' Sherlock said in his most reassuring voice. 'It's okay. It doesn't matter right now. Now drink your tea before it gets cold.'

John grinned through his watery eyes. And both men continued to drink their tea in a complete, but very comfortable silence. 

* 

When John woke up the next morning, he realised he was still in what had become 'his' comfy chair. They had stayed up almost the entire night talking. About life, stuff, family, friends, school. Sherlock had not seemed to get tired, so John must have fell asleep in the middle of their conversation.

'Good morning,' a deep baritone greeted him.

'Good morning, professor Holmes. Ready for the first day?' He teased - they were already teasing! John got up, his muscles stiff from a whole night in the same position. The comfy chair was comfortable, like its name said, but if after sleeping and sitting in there for a whole night, his back acked.

'Did you sleep well?' Sherlock asked.

'Relatively.' John sighed. 'Could be better.'

'I ordered some breakfast. I assumed you'd prefer eating it here over going to the Great Hall.' John looked at Sherlock, surprised. It had only been a couple of hours since Sherlock had called him 'fake'. And now he already was looking after him and his bloody leg. But no, that was not what John wanted. He wanted to be a regular professor and if that meant he had to go to the Great Hall, fine, he'd go there.

'Actually, I'd love to get breakfast with the others. Walk around a bit. All I get to do today is stand on a field, yelling at students how to fly. It's not like I'm going to be very active today. Maybe I'll mount a broom, but the chances are very slim. So do me this one favour, Sherlock, and come with me to the Great Hall.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I'll come.'

The two men, one with a walking stick and one with a long coat, left their room and walked to their breakfast.

 

 


	3. Chapter 2

'Look at them, the freak's come out of his hole for once.'

'Ew, freak professor Holmes is here.'

'What is our new flying instructor doing with professor Holmes?'

'They can't be friends.'

'The freak has arrived.'

'We have to save professor Watson.'

Sherlock could hear every wisper in the room. Not all of them were about the two of them, but most of them were. A silence fell in the Great Hall. Every pair of eyes was locked on Sherlock Holmes. He could see head's turning to friends, asking what was happening, why Professor Holmes was out here to have breakfast with the other professors.

He looked at John, who was walking right behind him. He must have noticed he was scared of the crowd, because he wispered: 'I'm right behind you. We're in this together.'

Sherlock smiled. There were far worse tings than sharing a room with John Watson.

When they arrived at the table where all the other professors were already seated, Dumbledore rose and said: 'Very well, now you've all seen how professor Holmes and professor Watson have joined us for breakfast. Now it's time to show some respect and let them eat without feeling like they're in a zoo.'

The students focussed back on their plates. The subject of their conversations changed back to classes and roommates. Of course, every now and then there still was a student who threw a sneaky look at the pair of them, but generally, they could eat in peace.

Sherlock and John were chatting about everything and nothing at the same time. Sherlock noticed some of the teachers threw nasty glances at John. He hadn't even introduced himself! It was because of him, Sherlock soon realised. Because John was sitting here, with Sherlock, the other teachers had already deemed him unworthy of having contact with. He could still fix this. If he left now, if he gave John a chance to mingle with the other teachers, they would notice how ordinary and friendly John really was. How amazing he was. So he turned to John.

'I can't do this. I have to go, please let me go back to our room. I'm not made for this. I can manage a class, but this is a group that is too big.' He tried to get up, but John's hand on his arm stopped him.

'Think of this as an experiment.' Sherlock was surprised. When did John get to know him this well? 'You can leave whenever you want, but the longer you stay, the more data you can collect. There are students of yours, sitting in the room. If you collect data now, you can impres them later when you're in charge of the classroom.'

'John...' Sherlock was contemplating. If he stayed, he could do exactly what John had said, but if he left, John could make some other friends, could get to know the other professors. It was a dilemma, but after all it was not his choice to make. Sherlock had given John a chance and that was all he could do. John had made his choice and deep inside, Sherlock was secretly pleased with it. 'Okay, I'll stay. But only for you.'

John smiled. 'Thank you.' He seemed to mean it.

Sherlock pointed at the other professors. They were sitting at the edge of the table and next to John sat Lestrade. 'Graham Lestrade. Professor of Transfiguration. Happily married, although he has an eye on my brother sometimes, but he hasn't realised it yet.'

John chuckled.

'His wife is having an affair, but he doesn't know about it, since he is here most of the time.'

John laughed. Lestrade looked at them. 'Did I miss something funny?' He asked. Then he realised who it was he was talking to. 'I'm Greg, by the way. Greg Lestrade.'

'John Watson.' John and Greg, apparently, shook hands.

'I'm introducing John to all the teachers,' Sherlock said, trying to scare Lestrade off.

'Oh, can I help?'

 And John, being his polite self, answered 'Of course you can.'

Lestrade poked the teacher next to him softly. 'John, this is Molly Hooper. If you ever end up in the hospital, chances are Molly will be looking after you. Molly, this is John Watson.'

'H-hi, John.' They also shook hands. Based on the look on John's face, Sherlock already knew he liked Molly.

This way, the four of them worked their way down the table. Most of the time Lestrade said the name, Molly addes some nervous comment and Sherlock wispered something he had deduced in John's ear. John smiled with every word.

When they had arrived at the end of the table, there was only one more teacher left. James Moriarty.

'James Moriarty,' Sherlock wispered. 'Hard to deduce. He is my enemy, sort of. We're adults, so we can talk and work on school stuff together, but apart from that, we hate each other. He's planning something, something bad.'

John looked surprised at Sherlock. 'I thought... People normally don't have enemies.'

'Don't they?' Sherlock asked. 'Then what do they have?'

'Friends, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends. Boyfriends.'

'Dull.'

John grinned. Of course Sherlock would not have any normal relationships.

Suddenly Sherlock remembered John had to teach a class the first hour today. The Great Hall was already empty, which was a sign that the classes would soon start. He pointed it out to John, who jumped up and tried to run to his class as soon as possible.

*

'Hello class,' John said rather nevously to the group of first years in front of him. He had flown a broom so many times it had become a second nature for him. He never thought about how he had to explain it to people who had never even seen a broom before.

'Hello, professor Watson,' they replied in unison.

They were standing in a row, all next to their own broom, just like he had been all those years ago. Every year he had been here as a student, there had been stories about the first flying lesson. There were accidents. Every year. Like it was cursed or something. Or probably just a bad teacher. Sherlock had been teasing him that morning at breakfast that it was some sort of tradition to have a student who had an accident with a broom.

'Put your hand over the broom and say "up" really confident. Brooms know when you're not certain it will work and then they will just stay on the ground.'

The group yelled 'up' all at once and about half of the brooms flew into the hands of a student.

'Keep trying,' John encouraged the other students while walking around.

When almost all the brooms were in the air, there was only one more girl who was struggling. She was shouting at the broom now, but there was a tremble in her voice that betrayed how scared she was of flying.

'You don't have to shout to it,' John said, standing behind her.

The girl jumped, not expecting the interference of the teacher.

'What's your name?' John asked, his voice sounding as soothing as possible.

'M... Maxie.' The girl was so insecure. She almost fainted because he talked to her. She must have brothers or sisters who had made her really scared about flying and teachers. Well, they were wrong.

'Well, Maxie. It's not because you're shouting at the broom that that means you're more confident. You can wisper to it and it will still work.' And then he wispered: 'up.'

The broom immediately flew into his hand. He handed it over to Maxie, who accepted it thankfully.

'Now, the next step. Mount your broom everybody.'

You could see by the way everybody mounted their broom if they had flown before. Some of the Slytherin boys were already looking at him like they could not wait for him to tell them to fly. There were others, however, who were happy enough to stay with their two feet on the ground. There weren't a lot of them in his group, thank god for that, but Maxie was one of them and another Huffelpuf boy.

'Everybody ready?' He asked.

Most of the students shouted 'yes', but Maxie and the boy remained quiet.

'When I blow this wistle,' John showed the students the wistle in his right hand. 'You all take off, fly for a few seconds and then come down. If you don't want to fly right now, you can stay on the ground.'

And then he blew the thing.

The naturals did the exercice without problem, most of the others had no problem either, but the boy had tried it. Now he was floating in the air. Not knowing how to get down again. 'Just lean forward, but not too hard,' John advised him. He was standing right next to him, ready to catch him if that was necessairy. Turned out it wasn't, but John was glad he was standing there, the boy seemed much more relaxed with him there. In the end, everyone had been in he air for at least a few seconds, except Maxie.

'Class has ended,' John announced five minutes before the class was supposed to end. 'You can all go, except you, Maxie.'

All the students ran off, leaving their brooms in a messy pile. Only Maxie was standing there, looking very scared.

'What did I do wrong?' Maxie asked with a small voice.

John smiled. He knew how he had been. Harry had been telling him that it was so bad if a teacher asked you to stay behind after a lesson. John had been the most quiet boy in the entire year until he had figured out there were ways to get the teachers attention in a positive way.

'You did absolutely nothing wrong, Maxie. I just noticed you didn't fly today.'

Yeah... My brother... He...' She tried to tell a story, but she was too nervous. 'I'm sorry, professor.'

'No, it's okay. Did your brother have an accident?' 

The little girl nodded.

'Well, I'd like you to come to my room after the last class has ended. We're going to fly together. You don't have to be scared, I will control the broom, but I still want you to fly today. Is that okay with you?'

The girl nodded again.

'Well, off with you then. Have a nice first day.' John smiled again. What a cute little girl.

He watched Maxie run off to her friends, who had been waiting for her. He could almost imagine her telling enthusiasticly about how nice the new professor had been.

Feeling rather good, he realised he had a free hour now, so he headed back to his room, hoping he could talk to Sherlock.

*

Sherlock had promised himself he'd find out what Moriarty was up to this year. He was planning of starting early, so that he would have the whole year to process data if that was necessairy. He had prepared a pollyjuice potion at home, so all he needed were some hairs from Moriarty. How he would get those he had no idea. Wait, didn't he complain this morning to Dumbledore that he had to teach every hour today? Yeah, he had. That was it! Moriarty's rooms would be empty now, so Sherlock could sneek in there without any problems.

He went to the hall where Moriarty lived. He casted a spell to check for any living creatures, but there was nobody in the chambers or the hall. He could go ahead.

Sherlock managed to sneek into the room and went straight to the bathroom. There he found a comb with some hair in it. He took a few of them and put them in a bag. Mission complete.

Just as he wanted to leave to room, Moriarty came in. Sherlock punched himself for not being careful enough. He had to be more careful if he wanted to find out what Moriarty was up to. Moriarty went to his bookshelf, picked out a book and left again. This was too easy, Sherlock realised. No way Moriarty hadn't noticed he was here and no way did he just enter this room to pick up a book.

He got up from his hiding spot behind the bathroom door - very original, he scolded at himself - and left the room, glad he had the hairs in his pocket and content that he had not been caught, because Dumbledore had had enough of the rivalry between the two professors. He had warned them both last year: anything funny and they would be both gone from Hogwarts.

When he arrived in his rooms, they were still empty. Sherlock was secretly pleased with that. He did not want to explain to John what he was about to do. He would stop him immediately. Standing in front of the potion that he had warmed up again, he got the hairs out of his pocket and threw the into the cauldron. The content turned a filthy grey-green. Bracing himself for the bad taste he knew was going to come - it was not the first time he had used the potion - he drank it.

As soon as it went down his throat, he realised something was wrong. He saw black hair appearing all over his arms and he shrank. He had been so proud of his size and now he was returned to the size of a small dog. He shrugged. Moriarty must have known Sherlock would come there to collect some of his hair. Either that or Sherlock had just had rotten luck.

The transformation had taken place so quickly, the white flash that accompanied it appeared only when it was over.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 3

Just when John entered the room, there was a big flash of light. It had come from the experiment room, probably from the potion that was brewing there. He searched around the room, looking for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen. Strange, it was not like Sherlock to leave a potion alone, expecially not - John sniffed above the kettle - a polyjuice potion. Then he noticed the cup next to it. Empty, with some traces of the potion left. Of course, Sherlock was just wondering around the castle, disguised as somebody alse, tired of all the glances he received. Curious about who he had turned into - John would not be surprised if it turned out to be him - he played with the thought of taking a bit of the potion himself. It was only for an hour, it was not like it would do any permanent harm. Just as he was about to put the cup to his lips, something sharp scratched at his right foot. Annoyed, he looked down to see a black, wildhaired cat sitting there, with striking blue eyes.

Losing interest in the potion immediately, he knelt down and started to pet the little cat.

'Aren't you a beauty?' John murmured. 'Sherlock never mentioned you, you must have invaded our room.' John grinned as the cat started to purr under his touch. 'Let's give you a name, shall we. Your eyes look a bit like Sherlock.' The cat miauwed at the sound of the name. 'But I can't call you that, we already have a human Sherlock. What do you think about Blacky? After all you're as black as... As Sherlock's curls, now I see it. Maybe it is just destiny. Okay, let's call you Sherlock then.' The cat purred harder, in a sign of approval.

You like that, little cat? You like that?' John asked in a voice he normally reserved for young-born babies in the hospital. The cat gave him a look like he had no idea why the hell he wanted to be friends with him and turned around to walk away.

'Hey! Come back! Sherlock!' John shouted, but it was of no use. The cat was gone.

*

Sherlock walked away from John, tail straight and ears flat on his head in indignation. How dared he talk to him like he was a little cat? Oh, how this was a cruel joke the universe was playing: one of the most intelligent people on this Earth, trapped inside the body of a cat, at least for an hour. How had this even happened? Pollyjuice potion was not meant to work for animal transformations. And yet, obviously, he was a cat.

He looked down at his paws. Black, with nails, sharp as a knife, ready to destoy one of John's precious jumpers. Sherlock chuckled. The purring sound that came out of him surprised Sherlock. He certainly was not adjusted to this new body yet. He wiggled his tail. It was a strange feeling to have something hanging at the lower part of his back. He tried to make a questionmark sign with his tail, in case he would encounter someone again.

His ears might have been the most amazing thing about this transformation. He could turn them in almost every way andwith every turn, he discovered new sounds that came from all around the castle. In front of him, he could hear John call out his name, already attached to the small cat he had named after his roommate without giving it a second thought. He contemplated going back over to him, knowing John would certainly start petting him again. Being pet was an amazing feeling. It was like a hand in your hair, slowly and softly pulling at your roots. He could do nothing but purr. He seriously thought about going back. But then he remembered the way John had talked to him, like he was a baby or a cat - well, actually, he was a cat, John did not know any better - and he indignantly walked away again.

He roamed aimlessly through the castle, waiting for the hour to pass. Nobody seemed to grant him a second glance. He could actually use this form to his advantage.

He continued his strol, but this time he had a purpose: he had the most perfect disguise to spy on Moriarty without him noticing him. After a couple of minutes and some students making some kissing noises at him, trying to catch his attention, for the second time that day, Sherlock found himself in the hall of Moriarty's room again.

*

John had forgotten about the little cat quite quickly. A little worried about Sherlock and his potion, he searched the room for a second time for the black-haired man. Even though he had known Sherlock for only two days, he had felt a connection between the two of them, expecially after their conversation last night. Sherlock had seemed genuinly interested in John, the first one in years. All the attention he had ever received had been attached to his carreer as Chaser. Everyone wanted to be his friend - oh, and how many friends had he had - but as soon as his star had lost a little bit of his light, they had turned their back. Sherlock did not care, not in the slightest bit, because just like John, he had been alone for years. They had found the other in that.

When the clock on his wrist - a habit from when he had lived with some muggles for a year between jobs - announced the next lesson had started, John figured Sherlock must have left for class in time. Suddenly feeling incredibaly tired, he installed himself in his chair and - after setting his alarm - fell asleep.

*

Sherlock the cat looked at the door. It was closed. He was obviously way too small to open it by the handle, so he would have to find another way in. He walked to the othe side of the hall. All there was was a bench and a sculpture. Wait... If he could just...

Sherlock climbed from the bench on the top of the sculpture and launched himself at the door. Aiming for the handle, he missed it by only a couple of inches. He could feel himself flying through the air, back first. His body instinctively turned around so that he landed with his little paws first. What amazing creatures cats were.

He did the same routine again, climbing and then jumping and this time, he got it right. The door opened and there was nothing left in Sherlock's way.

Once he entered the room, he immediately noticed how quiet it was in there. No open windows through which the sound of playing children could drift inside. No fire in the fireplace. No animal, demanding attention. But Sherlock was here to investigate and that was exactly what he did.

He turned the room upside down, every corner, every inch of the entire room. Nothing. No ingredients for secret potions, no notes of planning a conspiracy, nothing.

Sherlock was highly dissapointed. He had at least expected something. But then again, Moriarty was cleverer than that. Sherlock, too much drawn to the clues he was looking for, had not heard the door opening and jumped startled when he heard a voice behind him say: 'enjoying youself, are we, Sherlock?'

*

At the end of classes, John was sleeping happily in his chair again. He'd slept rather comfortably earlier and had skipped the lunch, so now he was rather hungry. Just when he was about to get up and go to the kitchen to see if there was anything for him to eat, three small first years appeared on his door step. One of the was Maxie and she accompagnied by a girl from Gryffindor and one from Huffelpuff. The two girls pushed Maxie, who was still very nervous around teachers, a bit forward.

'Hello, Maxie,' John said. 'Who are your friends?'

'Er..' she mumbled. 'Sara and Sara.'

'Well, what a coincidence.' John smiled. The two Sara's were a bit nervous as well, but the one from Huffelpuff managed to hide it the best. 'Do you want to join us, ladies?'

Gryffindor Sara nodded immediately, like she had been hoping for it. Huffelpuff Sara on the other hand, was more reluctant over the proposition. At the end, she still ended up tagging along.

The four of them went out to the Quidditch field. Why had he not agreed to meet them there? John wondered.

When they had arrived at their destination, John made three broomsticks appear with a flick of his wand. They hovered in front of them, where all of them could see it.

'Do... Do I really have to fly that?' Maxie nervously exclamed.

'I will sit behind you, controlling the broom,' John said. 'Don't worry, you won't fall off.'

She nodded.

John turned to the other girls. 'Has any of you ever flown before?'

Gryffindor Sara nodded again. It was no surprise actually, a Gryffindor was supposed to be bold enough to try new things. The Huffelpuff Sara on the other hand had not, but she was not as scared of it as Maxie had been during class.

'Well, grab yourself a broom then.' John grabbed his own, to give the good example.

As soon as his hand thouched the broom, old memories came floating back. Suddenly, he found himself in the changing room at Hogwarts, dressed op for his first match, all nervous. They had been training for weeks now, and the captain had been telling him how much his reflexes had approved since the start of the year. The game had been amazing. They had lost, but John had enjoyed it so much: flying, catching, throwing. It had all worked out.

Then he was standing on the same spot, but now he was the captain of the team. It was his last game and it was against Slytherin. He had planned tactics to defeat Slytherin and win the House Cup. They had worked: John had managed to make three goals, just like the other chasers and their seeker found the snitch before the Slytherins. He still remembered the party in the Gryffindor Common Room later that night.

A second later he was back at that horrible night, the night of the accident.

He shook his head, it was not something he wanted to experience right now.

'Professor, is everything alright?' The Huffelpuff Sara asked.

'Yeah, yeah. I'm fine.' John said in a reflex. 'Fine.' He swallowed. 'Very well, now everybody is seated on their broom, let's take off. Maxie, come here, just...' He showed her how to get on the broom. 'Yeah, great, well, now we're off.'

They flew around on the brooms for half an hour before John came down again and made Maxie fly alone. She had relaxed while being in the air and her friends had tried the most ridiculous tricks he had ever seen. He had forgotten how it was to fly a broom. How much he enjoyed it. And how he regretted he had been sacked from the team.

Around six o'clock, John announced that it was time to go to dinner, even if it was just for him. He was starving! And he would see Sherlock again. Sherlock had promised him that morning that he would come to the dinner if he hadn't forgotten. To be sure, John quickly visited their room to check if he was not there. Nope. Well, he'd have to be somewhere. But first, food.

*

A lot of snarky comments and questions came up in Sherlock's head, but only one of them stayed: how does he know who I am?

He opened his mouth to say it, but all that came out of it was 'miauw?'

'Oh, dear, no idea how to talk?' Moriarty grinned. 'You really should be more careful with what you put in your potions.'

Sherlock hissed. Annoyed with having no voice, he tried to get close to the man so he could scratch him.

As soon as he came cloose enough, Moriarty kicked him rather hard. Sherlock was catapulted to the other side of the room.

'Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made.' Moriarty mimicked the housekeeper Sherlock had been attached to during his childhood. 'Have you figured out what happened yet?'

Sherlock started to realise this was not an accident, that Moriarty had known he was coming and that he was going to take some hairs from his comb. This was his way to take revenge. It must have been hairs from a cat, and not from a human. Still, a normal cathair would only have turned him into hal a cat, a human with ears, a tail and some hair on his face. But he was a complete cat, which means it must've been a special cat. Like...

'A magic cat, Sherlock. A cat who was once a wizard, just like you. And you know bloody well that once you have something of a magic cat in you system, like a hair, you will transform, never to turn back to normal. Poor you, a lifetime of being a cat.' He grinned. 'I hope you're looking forward to it, because there's nothing you can do about it.'

Sherlock had managed to get up again. His right leg hurt, but he could still walk, although it was with a small limp.

'How you look like your little roommate. Limping away, tail between your legs, quite litterally. I wonder how long it will take before someone misses you: a week, a month, a year?' Moriarty laughed. 'You've brought this on yourself, Sherlock. I promised you last year I owed you some revenge. You better enjoy it, while you can.' He turned around and walked out of the room, bored of the little cat in the corner, hissing furiously at him. 


	5. Chapter 4

John arrived in the Great Hall just in time to catch Dumbledore's speech after the first day. He was wishing everyone an amazing year, now that they had met all their teachers and so on. Before he sat down, he glanced at John, a smile on his face, glad the new professor was adjusting so quickly. John sat down next to Greg, like he had at breakfast.

'Hi,' he said.

After being greeted by Greg as well as Molly, he asked: 'have you seen Sherlock anywhere?'

Neither of them had. Strange. It was not like he and Sherlock had been close enough so that Sherlock would tell John what he was up to, but John really was getting rather worried. Where could he be? He had obviously been using polyjuice potion, but he should have turned back to normal. Unless... He remembered an accident with a girl, in his last year at Hogwarts. They had had an asessement for Potions and she had made polyjuice potion to turn into her best friend. But she had not been carefull enough in selecting the hairs and she had turned into half a cat. Maybe that was what had happened to Sherlock as well. It would certainly explain why he had left the potion unsupervised and why John could not find him anywhere. He must have been embarassed.

John chuckled. He actually wanted to see Sherlock with cat ears now.

'Meow.'

The sound of a little cat demanded his attention. It was sitting in the chair Sherlock had been sitting in the morning before. What was it doing there? Then John recognised the cat: it was Sherlock!

He tried to pet him, but as soon as he came close to him, the cat ran away, leaving John with his hand hanging in the air.

John looked up, not expecting to see the cat anymore, so he was quite surprised when he noticed the cat standing in the doorway, with a look on his face that seemed to ask him why he hadn't come after the little thing yet.

So John got up and followed the black cat that reminded him of Sherlock so much. He ran from the Great Hall, up the stairs, suddenly forgetting his leg and the pain, focussed on getting to the cat. They ran through the entire castle, Sherlock knowing the exact way and John kind of tagging along, always a few feet behind the small creature. When the cat stopped, it took John a while to notice where they were. They stood in front of the Gryffindor Common Room. As soon as John said the password, opening the way into the room, Sherlock took off again.

This time, the jog had not been as long as the first one. They ran to the second floor and entered the boy's bedroom. It had been John's during his years at Hogwarts. He had kissed his first girlfriend here, wrote more than one love letter and had more than one night where he and his friends would talk all night.

The cat seemed very certain as he walked to John's previous bed. He scratched something on the pillar of the bed, which earned him a dissaproving look from John and then stepped out of the way, so that his companion could see it.

'Sherlock.'

How could a little cat write its name on a bed, that had once been his? John started distantly to pet the cat. He purred under his hands and it didn't really help him to focus. But, what if...? No...! That can't be!

John looked at the cat again. He had exact the same eyes as Sherlock, the same hair, the same curls. Was it...? How?

'Sherlock?'

The cat immediately responded with a 'meow'.

 'Are you really Sherlock?' John could not believe it.

The little cat nodded.

'But how?'

The cat wanted to scratch the answer on the bed, but John stopped him. There was no need to vandalise the bed even more. He picked the cat up and did not put him down until they were in their own rooms again. He gave the cat some paper and some ink - not a pen, he would not be able to hold it anyway.

 _Moriarty_ , he wrote.

'But, how?'

_Hair of a magic cat (cat who was a wizard first). Transformation is permanent._

_'_ No it isn't.'

The cat looked at him. _What's it like in your funny little brains?_

 _'_ Be nice. I only meant I was going to find some cure for it.'

_You are?_

_'_ Yes, you little unbeliever.'

_Thank you._

John stared at the words. It had taken the cat a while to write them down, even though they were not particulary difficult, so John figured they were not words Sherlock used very often. He must mean it, John thought. He really is grateful.

Then John's eyes widened. 'Oh, I talked to you like...' Like a baby. He did not have to say the words for Sherlock to understand what he was talking about. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry! No wonder you walked away.'

He started petting Sherlock again.

After five minutes of him petting and Sherlock purring, John called his owl, Benedict, who was a little weary of the cat, but soon relaxed as he saw the small letter John had in his hand.

 _Greg_ , it said. _Sorry to bother you like this, but could you please come to Sherlock's rooms? There is a little problem I need your help with. John_

John was not a crack in transfiguration. He had the idea that they could transfigure Sherlock back, even if it was only temporarily. It would be better than him running around as a cat all day. He had no idea if it could work, but it was worth a shot.

He remained preoccupied with what could happen and before he knew it, Greg and Molly were standing next to him.

'What's the problem?' Greg asked.

'This little cat.' John placed Sherlock on the table, next to the papers he had been writing on.

'What's wrong with it?' Molly asked.

'It's Sherlock.'

John could see the radars in Greg's head turn and try to wrap his wrap his mind about that fact. 'Did the cat write that?' He pointed at the sentences on the paper.

John nodded.

After reading them, both of their guests had turned pale as a sheet.

'John,' Molly started. 'Magic cats, they're very rare. And what Sherlock wrote is true, the transformation that comes with it is permanent. I'm sorry, John, I don't know if there's any cure for this.'

John refused to believe that, for Sherlock's sake.

'You have a plan, haven't you?' Greg said, smiling like he had seen the light. 'You plan to transfigure him into a human again until you find the antidote.'

John nodded. Greg was quite intelligent, albeit in another way than Sherlock was. Greg was someone who could read people and their moods and plans rather well, while Sherlock... Well, he was Sherlock.

'Meow.'

The cat managed to get all the attention and pointed at the paper, where now a new line of words had appeared. _You need a really powerful wizard to transform me back._

'Yes, but if we all three of us tried, then it could be possible,' Greg proposed.

_It might be._

'It's your only option right now, Sherlock. Will you take it?' John looked hopefully at him.

The cat nodded.

So the four of them got to work. Greg briefed them shortly on how to do the spell _(just imagine Sherlock in front of you like he used to be. Then I will cast the spell. All you have to do is repeat my exact words after me. So actually, you'll be casting a spell as well.)_

He looked concerned at John. 'How good are you at spells?'

When John looked offended, Greg defended himself with the fact that he had never seen John preform magic before.

Fair enough, thought John, so he conjured a patronus spell to impress Greg. Soon, a little cat that looked exactly like Sherlock jumped out of his wand.

'I-I... Well...' Stammered John, surprised that his patronus suddenly was a cat instead of a hedgehog. 'That never happened before.'

'John,' Molly said. 'You know a patronus can change form after an emotional event or shock.'

John looked at the little cat, who had a puzzled look on his face.

'Let's do it,' he called out. 'Let's do it now, before anybody notices he's gone.'

So the three of them joined hands and imagined a Sherlock Holmes, one more naked than the other.

Greg began to chant and John as well as Molly repeated his words, until they had formed a mantra, repeating itself over and over again.

Still chanting, John opened his eyes and looked at the cat. It's limbs were stretching out, becoming pink again, like proper human's. The black fur retreated to the black curls on his head. His body grew, until he finally reached that annoying length again, almost a head taller than John.

When they stopped chanting, there was a naked Sherlock in front of them, one where Molly could not keep her eyes off, and if John was honest, neither could he.

Sherlock took a deep breath, like it was his first in a long, long time.

'God, it's good to be able to speek again.'


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock got up, finally able to stand on two legs again. He might have enjoyed being a cat, but he was born a human and he prefered being human. How could anyone not? He started walking around the room, checking if everything was still in place. Of course, John had not dared to touch anything. After Sherlock had checked the living room, he went to the potion that was still on the table in the experiment room. He picked it up and made sure nobody could ever drink it again. Then, after walking to the other side of the room, he sat down in his own chair, looking at the others.

Only now he noticed that two of them were staring at him. John and Molly. Lestrade was standing there awkwardly, like he did not know where to look. Molly stared at his chest, no doubt enjoying the game of muscles as he moved. John on the other hand, could not take his eyes from something behind him, that still was a part of him though.

'What happened?' Lestrade eventually asked, after a good minute of silence.

'I already told you, Moriarty happened.'

'A bit more detail would be nice.' Greg sounded irritated.

John did not seem to register any of the conversation, still staring, his mouth dropped open now.

Sherlock grinned, knowing he would confront John about this as soon as they would be alone. No way he would let this possibility pass by without notice.

'I went to Moriarty's room, took some of his hairs, made a polyjuice potion, drunk it and turned into a cat. Happy now?'

This seemed to wake John up a bit. 'Be nice, Sherlock.' He murmured.

'You knew it was dangerous!' Greg almost shouted. 'What if Moriarty had found you there and had gone to Dumbledore? You would've lost your job.'

'That's not what he wants. Plus he knows perfectly well that he'll lose his job as well because he turned me into a cat. Even if he did not tell Dumbledore what had really happened, the warning applies to both of us. Anything funny, and we're both gone.' Sherlock shrugged. 'And I'm sure that if our Head Master finds out you three are involved as well, you can probably forget your carreers as well.'

'What does he want then?'

'Good question.' Sherlock sighed. 'Revenge probably. Maybe even humiliation.'

'But it does not make sense, Sherlock.' Now Molly had come to her senses again. 'Why would Moriarty want to take revenge on you? What did you ever do to him?'

'After years of discovering him, knowing he was behind all those attacks and telling Dumbledore about them, Moriarty wanted to make sure that this time, I wouldn't talk. And apparently, I have become so predictable that he knew I was going to come to his room, grab a few hairs and then use them in a potion. Although he never suspected for a John Watson to be around to have a brilliant idea.'

He saw John come back to life, to the present at the mentioning of his name. 'What?'

'John, pull yourself together, man,' Sherlock snapped, getting annoyed with all the attention John was giving his naked self. He had realised he was naked, but he had chosen to do nothing about it, hoping his companions would be civil about it. To be honest, he had expected it from Molly, but not from John. 'You've seen me naked lots of times.'

'Actually, Sherlock,' John said, still staring. 'I've lived here for about a day. And even if I had seen you naked before, nothing would prepare myself for...'

'For what, John?'

Lestrade answered instead of John, fearing that he could not produce a normal answer in the next fifteen minutes.

'For the tail between your legs and the ears on your head, Sherlock. We didn't manage to transform you completely. You're still half cat.'

John blushed, ashamed that he could not formulate that answer himself. It's not like it was the most astonishing thing that could happen to someone in the Wizard World.

Sherlock had fallen silent as well, not knowing what to do with this piece of information. How did he not notice the tail growing out of his back? How did he not feel that? Now that he did know, though, he swung it from left to right, feeling his balance shift as it moved. He could get used to this. Better hearing, better balance and nine lives. He could do with that. He smiled, suddenly feeling all his energy and concentration drain from him.

Greg noticed this and told Sherlock that it was perfectly normal to be tired after a transformation like this. He gently guided Sherlock to his bedroom and only left it again when he was sure Sherlock was sound asleep.

*

John, who had been sitting in his chair again, waiting for Greg to return, let his mind wander over the things that had been said this night. Apparently, there was some kind of rivalry between Sherlock and Moriarty. It had gone to a point where Dumbledore had to threated to sack them. John had never heard about Dumbledore sacking anyone for not being able to communicate with another teacher. It must have gotten really bad, then.

As soon as Greg returned, John asked him what had happened before, why the rivalry existed in the first place.

'I wasn't there those first years,' Greg explained. 'But I've heard stories. Most of them were told by Sherlock, and we both know he is not always the most reliable source, don't we?' He grinned slightly. 'Sherlock told me the first year he was here as a teacher, a trol had been left loose to stroll over the grounds. It had stayed in the Forbidden Forest, but one day, it had attacked a boy from Huffelpuff. If he hadn't intervened, he had said, the boy would have died. And Moriarty had been doing anything and everything to stop him. Sherlock had no idea why. And this continued every year up till now. In his second year there were spiders in the Forbidden Forest, in his third year there had been an inexplicable dementorattack and last year, a werewolf had bitten a girl. Sherlock knew that it was Moriarty, because every threat was accompanied with a puzzle for Sherlock. If he solved it, the threat dissapeared from the grounds. He solved it every year without casualties, until last year.

'The werewolf had managed to bite a girl, infecting her with the virus. The parents had not been happy, of course. Dumbledore had to do something. When Sherlock arrived in his office to claim Moriarty had done it for the fourth time, I imagine Dumbledore must have had enough. He told Sherlock that if one last thing, one funny thing happened between him and Moriarty, that they could forget ever stepping foot inside Hogwarts again.'

'But why?' John asked.

'I don't know. And neither does Sherlock. It's driving him crazy. He's better now, with you, you know. He seems more... Human.'

'More human? What was he like before then?'

'Oh, you don't want to know.'

*

When Sherlock finally woke up, only just in time to go to breakfast the next morning, John decided to take a proper look at Sherlock.

Unlike most professors at Hogwarts, Sherlock wasn't a big fan of robes. He preferred to wear a suit, black and tailored for him personally. Where there had only been dark curls the day before were now a pair of black ears sticking out on top of his head. John had to resist the temptation to feel and touch them, they just looked so soft amidst those dark curls. As far as John could see, nothing else had changed: Sherlock was still lean and muscular, even though he had a slight touch of underweight here and there. It was only when he turned around that John could see the dark tail hanging out of his trousers.

'What are you looking at?' Sherlock got annoyed with John staring at him.

'Just. You.' John said very poetically.

Sherlock grinned. 'And do you like what you see?'

John blushed, which made Sherlock only grin harder.

'Let's go have breakfast, okay?' John tried to distract any attention from his red head, expecially if the attention was coming from such a handso- John stopped himself from finishing the thought, he was not going down that way. Not after...

'Okay, Mr. Tomato.'

It was only as they walked through the corridors that John remembered that he had left his walking stick at dinner last night. And yet, here he was, walking without a limp for the first time in months, even years.

'I told you it was psychosomatic,' Sherlock said, no doubt feeling very good with himself for being right.

John chose to ignore him.

The students, on the other hand, would not. They would openly stare at the professor with his new cat ears and tail. Some of them giggled, but stopped fairly quickly when Sherlock shouted 'ten points from Gryffindor' or 'twenty points from Ravenclaw', depending on how many people were involved and which house they were in.

Only two students had the nerve to talk to him, and they were the same as ever: Donovan and Anderson.

'A little experiment gone wrong, professor?' Anderson asked, obviously enjoying himself.

'I'd be very carful if I were you, mr...?' John said, feeling Sherlock's mood darken as the boy had only opened his mouth.

'Anderson, sir. You must be the new Flying Instructor, professor Watson.' They shook hands but John had the feeling Anderson was just trying to become the new teacher's pet.

'Why are you friends with him, sir?' The girl asked. 'Did he follow you to your chambers?'

'And who might you be?' John got annoyed with the two little gits in front of him.

'Sally Donovan, sir. And you haven't answered my question.'

'First of all, Sally Donovan. That's minus five points for Gryffindor for being rude to a teacher. And second of all, that's none of your damn buissiness.' Donovan whined slightly. 'And be glad it stays with only five.'

'Sorry, sir.'

Sherlock, who had grown very quiet, suddenly felt the need to add something to the conversation: 'You know it's forbidden for the different housed to be in each others Common Rooms, right?'

'Excuse me, sir, I was in the Gryffindor Tower all night.'

'No, you weren't. You have some mud on your cloak, and it can't be from yesterday, because all clothes are cleaned overnight and you're not the I-go-for-a-jog-in-the-morning-type since you still have a hunge of baby fat you can't really get rid of with just dieting. So only logical explanation, you were in the Huffelpuff Greenhouse. Minus ten points for both Gryffindor and Huffelpuff for that. Next you didn't only sleep in the Greenhouse, you also slept in the same bed, something else that's forbidden here at Hogwarts. You snuggled into Andersons neck, which gave you some marks on your forehead and him some marks in his neck. Also, you used his deodorant. Minus ten more points for both your houses. Do you want me to continue or did I make a point and won't you ever do it again?'

'No, professor. Yes, professor. No professor,' the two prefects said in unison. They had no idea how quick they had to leave the two of them alone.

'That was... Amazing!' John exclaimed.

'You think so?' Sherlock sounded surprised. 'That's not what people usually say.'

'What do they say, then?'

'Bugger off.'


	7. Chapter 6

Both of the men fell into a comfortable routine: having breakfast, deduce the living daylight out of some people, teaching, lunch, more teaching, talking in their rooms and correcting homework - in Sherlock's case - or helping scared students. Before they knew, the days had flown by and it was Saturday morning.

The first thing John did when he woke up was make tea. He had perfected this skill when he stayed with some muggles who had mysteriously gotten addicted to his brewings. Apart from the habit, it also comforted him.

It was the sound of Sherlock playing the violin that had woken him. Sherlock was playing a tune John had never heard before, not that he knew a lot about classical music. John stayed in the doorway and listened for a while before he entered the room, compelled by his hunger.

Sherlock kept playing, like he hadn't noticed John's entrance.

John was still sipping his cup of tea when the other teacher finally turned around and asked how long he'd been standing there.

The chaser just smiled and took another sip of his tea. 'Want a cup?'

Sherlock put down his violin and poured himself some tea. As he sat down, John took place opposite him.

'So, er...' He began awkwardly. 'You don't have a girlfriend, then?'

'Girlfriend?' Sherlock sipped his cup. 'No, not really my area.'

'Alright then. Do you have a boyfriend?' After which John nervously added that that was perfectly fine.

'I know it's fine.'

'So you've got a boyfriend, then.' John had no idea why he was so nervous. It was not like the man in front of him was - Once again he had to stop himself from thinking The Name. He had started a new chapter in his life. He'd gotten over it.

'No.'

The chaser's heart suddenly was suddenly beating twice as hard. 'So, you're unattached, like me. I mean, ... We're both single.'

'What are you suggesting, John?'

'Nothing, nothing. It's just...' Suddenly the chaser realised what he was doing. He was flirting. With Sherlock. Flirting. But he hadn't flirted for over three years, not since Martin. John felt terrible at the mention of his name. Three years. That's how long it took for him to get over him enough to flirt with someone else. Three years since he - He cut himself off. 'I have to go, I er... I have to help Greg with er... Looking for a cure.' This was an obvious lie and he realised it. What would Sherlock think of this?

He got up and left the room, leaving a baffled Sherlock behind.

*

 John was definately hiding something. They had been flirting one second and the next, John was running away, leaving Sherlock behind with his thoughts.

 There was something odd about the chaser, Sherlock realised. Probably something to do with his past. His left eyebrow had been trembling just before he took off, which meant he was thinking about something traumatic, maybe even the thing that had given him that psychosomatic limb. It was not very recent, otherwise John wouldn't have been able to get rid of the limb so easily. The accident that had resolved in John's resignation had been in the papers. It had been ages since somebody had been seriously injured playing Quidditch and the chaser had been quite popular back then. Sherlock remembered every detail of it, including the very small article about the man who had died that same day, in the same place. Martin something. It hadn't been in the Daily Prophet too openly since the Ministry didn't want the Wizard World to suddenly stop playing Quidditch. Of course there were accidents that ended in a lethal way now and then, but this one had been the first in his kind. It had been a spectator. 

John's diluted pupils haad not only shown his attraction to Sherlock himself, but also to the man he was thinking about, the man who was dead because of him. The man who stopped him from moving on. The man he killed.

John Watson was a murderer.

At least that was how he saw himself. The Aurors didn't really see it that way, but to keep John happy, they had locked him up in a cell overnight. The papers had been very detailed about the turn of John Watson, famous chaser for England. The rumours had been ridiculous. Nobody knew about the dead man, so everybody speculated why he had been imprisoned. Was it drugs? Illegal stuff?

When it had become ridiculous, the Quidditch team owner saw no other solution than to sack their star chaser. John had been roaming around the country, living with muggles, doing their little jobs, sometimes with the use of magic. But when Dumbledore had invited him to teach at Hogwarts, John hadn't been able to refuse. He had -quite correctly- assumed everyone had forgotten about him, so he had decided to make a very successfull return.

He obviously had feelings for Sherlock. The question was: was he ever going to act on them or even better, was Sherlock going to answer them? Sherlock had no idea. He did not do a thing like 'love' -or any other emotion for that matter. He held pure cold reason above all other thing and yet, he felt strangly attracted to his roommate. It was not yet love, more interest. The chaser intruiged him. But, as long as John did not make the first move, Sherlock was determined that the interest would not evolve into an obsession other people would call love.

*

Martin.

It had been a while since John had thought about him. They had been in love, once. Close to getting engaged. John had been looking for a ring for weeks. He had finally been able to convince the other man to come and enjoy a Quidditch match. A special place, reserved for family of the players.

John's seats had been empty all that time he had played for England, except that one time, that one fatal time.

Why had he nagged Martin so much about it? Why hadn't he been able to leave it alone, maybe Martin would still be alive now.

It had been a frontal collision. John had been distracted by Martin and hit by a bludger. The bloody thing had driven him into the tribune, right where his lover had been seated. It was like destiny. Only there had been no happy ending.

Martin had been so unlucky to be hit not only by. John, but also by the bludger only a few seconds later. His skull had been shattered and there was nothing that could have been done to save him. Martin had died in John's arms, right in front of the eyes of the nurses, who had finaly arrived, only to be too late to save the damn man.

Martin had been so unlucky to be hit not only by. John, but also by the bludger only a few seconds later. His skull had been shattered and there was nothing that could have been done to save him. Martin had died in John's arms, right in front of the eyes of the nurses, who had finaly arrived, only to be too late to save the damn man.

Now here he was, five years later. He had broken his vow of the no-broom-touching and he was in love with another man. A mad, genious and most likely nearly dead man, if he continued to challenge Moriarty like that. It was the first man he didn't think of as not-Martin. Maybe he should give it a go, just... Martin would have wanted for him to move on. To love again. Because that's all you care about when you're in love: for the other to be happy. His time of mourning was over.

*

Sherlock jumped up as John barged back in their rooms - how easy it was to change his mind about possesions.

'Found a cure?'

'No, not really. Never got to Greg's quarters.'

'Then what have you been doing?'

'Planning this.' John stepped closer to Sherlock and leaned in, ready to kiss the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher.

Only a milisecond before their lips touched, Sherlock started to couch. John reclaimed some distance. The couching continued and Sherlock started to get trouble breathing in air.

'Can't... Breathe...' He managed.

Basic first aid training kicked in and John got to the other side of the man, took him in his arms - normally he would have enjoyed this - and preformed the Heimlich manoeuver. After a couple of tries a small ball came out of Sherlock's mouth. When John picked it up, he realised it was a hairball. He started to grin and showed it.

Sherlock managed a chuckle, that grew out to a full grown laugh, in which John quickly joined, for the first time in a long while completely at ease with the person opposite him.


	8. Chapter 7

'There might be someone.'

'What do you mean, Sherlock?'

'Who can help with the antidote. Or the spell. Or whatever it takes.'

'Then what are you waiting for, go to him.'

'I can't, John.'

'Why not?'

'It's complicated.'

Ever since they had that conversation, John had been thinking about it. It sounded like a teenage girl stuck in the drama she created around her relations with the rest of the world. 'It's complicated.' And who could he possibly mean? He had figured out by now that Sherlock didn't really have friends and that except from the ones present at Hogwarts, he knew of nobody else. He hasn't even mentioned anything like family. Brothers, sisters, parents. Are they alive? Do they know anything about the situation Sherlock is in right now?

John sighed. He considered calling for Benedict and ask him to bring a letter to a Holmes brother, but the chaser knows it does not work that way, that owls are clever but there is a limit. He decides to write it anyway.

_Mr Holmes, you might be informed -_

_Mr Holmes, my name is John Watson and I -_

_Mr Holmes, there's something with your brother -_

_Mr Holmes, something has happened with -_

He continues writing letters to the unknown brother deep into the night, even Sherlock has gone to bed. Why did he even think it was a brother anyway? It was perfectly possible for the stranger to be a woman. It wasn't until he began to doubt the name 'Holmes' that he decided to go to bed and to leave it at that. He'd just ask Sherlock about his siblings tomorrow and then he could try again when Sherlock was teaching.

As he stood, he threw the unfinished letters in the bin, getting ready to go to bed. After a quick glance at his watch - it was four a.m. - John already knew he was going to regret this decision tomorrow morning.

*

Sherlock woke up at six a.m. fairly close to his normal waking hours. He definately slept much more since he was a cat and he enjoyed a lazy day more than he had ever before. He still got bored of course, but the boredom seemed to hit him less hard and less frequent.

As he was waiting for the bottle to boil, Sherlock sat down and let his eyes wander around the room, looking for things out of place. Of course, everything was still normal and nothing had changed over night, absolutely noth- There were papers in the bin that hadn't been there before.

Sherlock picked them up, immediately recognizing the other man's writing.

The content of the letters - or attempts at letters - hit Sherlock in the face like a wrecking ball. How did John know about Mycroft? Of course, the chaser had just been trying to help, but this was something Sherlock wanted to do on his own, to solve on his own. Besides, Mycroft would only get the Ministry involved and this was somthing he wanted to avoid as long as possible.

It was only when he read the last few scribbles who were directed to a miss Holmes, that he dared to relax. John did not know anything about his brother and he was determined to keep it that way.

Having solved the mistery of the thrown-away letters, he installed himself in the experiment room - the euphemism he used for the room that used to be a kitchen - with a rat and his wand. He was trying to get the rat to predict the spell that was coming based on the movement of his arm and act appropriately.

Completely focussed on the experiment, Sherlock did not notice the other man appearing in their fireplace. And he didn't until the man descretely coughed to get his attention.

'Mycroft? What are you doing here?'

'Hello, brother dear, always nice to see you. How are you?'

'That's not why you're here,' Sherlock hissed, not at all happy with the situation. 'Have you recieved a letter from John?'

'No, why would I? He doesn't even know I exist.'

'Because he might have last night. He wanted to let my brothers and sisters know what had happened to me. So, he scribbled some short notes for a mr Holmes and a miss Holmes. If he hadn't been so tired at the end, he might have writen one for our parents as well.'

'What happened?'

Sherlock ignored him. He was so used to it by now. 'He stayed up until four o'clock to write for my benefit. He is incredibly loyal. If he once promises something -' Sherlock trailed off.

'Sherlock. What happened?' Mycroft had heard enough now. He had noticed the ears on top of his brother's head, even after a failed attempt to hide them and the tail between his legs and there was only one possible conclusion, but he wanted to hear Sherlock say it himself.

But once again, his brother ignored him. Not for the sake of annoying him, like he usually did, but because he was distracted. A man had appeared in the doorway, sleep still in his eyes. After all it was still half past six.

'Sherlock?' The man asked. 'Who is this man?'

'Nobody, he's - he's just a -' Sherlock was interupted by his brother, who had enough of this nonsense.

'I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. Pleased to meet you.'

Even a sleepy John did have some manners, so he tried to answer as politely as he could. 'The pleasure is all mine.' Sherlock snorted. 'I'm John Watson.'

'John Watson, the famous chaser for England, who had to resign after a drugsscandal, which was actually a cover-up for a death of someone dear to you?'

Did all the brothers have the skill to read your entire life of the slightest details? John wondered. 'Yes, that's me.'

'And what is your relationship to my brother?'

John blushed. 'Er... Well... He's... He's er...'

'He's my roommate,' Sherlock interupted, tired of all the stuttering. 'Nothing more.'

Sherlock's cold reaction made John blush even more, but this time of shame. He thought they were more than roommates by now, at least friends.

Maybe you can help me out then. What happened to my little brother?' Mycroft asked.

The two roommates exchanged a couple of looks, John not sure weither Sherlock wanted his brother to know or not. In the end, Sherlock gave a reluctant nod, so John told Mycroft everything.

After he was done, Mycroft just nodded and looked at him. 'So now you want my help.' The question that was not a question was directed to Sherlock, yet Mycroft did not take his eyes off John for a second.

'You know I'm not going to ask for it.'

'For God's sake, Sherlock,' John said. 'You are a cat transformed into a human with transfiguration. You need all the help you can get.' He turned to the brother. 'Yes. He wants your help. Is there anything you can do?'

'I'll see what I can do.' With those words, Mycroft Holmes turned around and left the rooms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a rather short chapter today, since I'm very busy with packing and stuff. There won't be any new chapters before August 20th since I don't know wether or not I will have wifi. Thank you all so much for reading my fanfic and stay awesome!  
> X Mycroffed


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but I was in Ireland with some wonderful people and I didn't really have time to write much. When I got home, I had a bit of a writer's block because I was too busy writing 'The Airport Happenings' but now I'm ready. I'm totally on it again c: this chapter is a bit short, but the next ones will be better. Hope you enjoy it! Xx

After Mycroft left, Sherlock turned around and threw himself onto the couch. There he sulked for the best part of the day, while John tried to figure out what had just happened. Not that he got very far, but at least he tried.

There was obviously some childish rivalry between the two brothers. Sherlock's mood had switched as soon as his brother had opened the door and Mycroft had played the protective older brother, trying to annoy the other. But in this state, Sherlock could use all the help he could get. John had no idea how long the three of them could hold up this transfiguration. So why didn't he want it? Who or what did Mycroft bring with him?

John replayed the conversation in his head, looking for clues about the older Holmes brother, but he didn't get much further than Sherlock's introduction of him. 'Just roommates'. Was that really all he was to Sherlock? After all, they had been flirting and Sherlock didn't seem to have had a problem with kissing each other. If the hair ball hadn't interrupted...

Maybe he should ask. The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher was just on the other side of the room and, yes, okay, he was sulking, but there must be a way to stop him doing that, right?

So John walked over to the couch and installed him next to Sherlock. At first he was just sitting there, waiting for Sherlock to recognise his presence, but after a while, he started going with his fingers through the other man's hair. Sherlock pretended not to notice or like it, but his purring gave him away.

After five minutes of petting, the other gave in and turned around, leaning deaper into John's touch. The longer they sat there, the more distinct the purring became, until in the end, Sherlock began moaning John's name.

Pulling his hand away - Sherlock tried to find it again - John asked: 'What did you mean, Sherlock, when you said that we were 'just roommates'?'

'John,' he moaned in response, clearly missing the hand in his hair.

'Answer me, Sherlock. I want to know.'

'I-I didn't want him to know.'

'To know what?'

A small hesitation. 'How much you mean to me.' It was not much more than a whisper, but John had heard it. And it was more than enough.

John managed to get Sherlock up and placed his lips upon Sherlock's. Not only did he feel the man melt under his touch, but his legs had some difficutly helping him stay on his feet as well.

How come they hadn't done this before? Their bodies fitted so well together - Sherlock's shoulder was at the height of John's eyes and all the proportions were right - it felt like they were made for each other.

Their kiss deepened and John managed to slip his tongue in. He kept it there, turning and fighting for dominance in Sherlock's mouth, until his longues were gasping for breath.

When he pulled away, the other man moaned his name and he opened his eyes, looking into a pair whose colour could never be determined.

'Oh, Sherlock,' he sighed.

'John,' Sherlock moaned again.

'We need to talk.'

Sherlock pressed their lips together again. John on the other hand, immediately pulled back.

'Do we really have to?' Sherlock sounded like a little kid.

'Yes. Why didn't you tell me about your brother?'

'Because he's tall, fat and annoying.' Sherlock was going back into sulk mode. If John didn't do anything about that soon, it would become impossible to get any answers from the half cat.

'You don't mean that.' John leaned back in and kissed him again. 'You thought the same about me and look where we are now.'

'John.' It was funny how quickly Sherlock's mind could be filled when he was involved.

'Okay, another question.' John placed his hand back in the black curles he loved so much. 'Why was it so difficult to ask him for help? Is there a problem between you two?'

'It's just...' Sherlock stole another kiss. 'He's older than me and he always treated me like the little kid he thought I was. And never, ever did he think about me as a real grown up, not once. Plus, he always thinks he's the smart one. Well, he bloody well isn't!'

'Shh, Sherlock, it's okay.' John moved his hand slightly and Sherlock purred in response.

Their two mouths met again and they moved with the rhythm of their kiss.

Until someone opened the door and ran in.

John broke their kiss in favor to look at the door. It was Maxie. Well, guess whose relationship wasn't really going to stay hidden for long, he thought sarcastically. In fact he really didn't mind.

'Yes, Maxie. What can I do for you?'

'Er..' She stuttered. 'Er... I-I-I can't remember. I'll come back when I do, okay?' Maxie turned around again and left again.

'Please...' John shouted the first word and then whispered the rest. 'Please don't tell the whole school.'

Sherlock looked at him. 'Why do you care what people think?

'I don't.'

'Yes you do. Why else would you ask the girl not to tell anyone.'

'It doesn't matter right now, Sherlock. What does matter are your lips, especially on mine.'

They continued their buisiness until once again, they were interrupted.

This time Sherlock looked up. 'Yes. What?'

'Uh, I'll come back later.' Lestrade - cause it was him - left the room as quickly as he could, trying to forget what he saw.

John giggled as Sherlock pulled an annoyed face.

'What?'

'Nothing, Sherlock. Maybe we should just move to the bedroom, so that we won't be interrupted again.'

Putting these words into deeds, the teacher picked up the chaser and carried him to their room, slamming the door behind them.

*

When John woke up again, feeling very good and very, very naked, the bed was empty. Feeling around, trying to find any trace of the other man, but no, alas, nothing. So he got up and put on some clothes, leaving the room to get ready for breakfast. When he entered the living room, Sherlock was already there, with two mugs of tea, waiting for him.

'Do you want some tea?' The Defence against the Dark Arts teacher asked as the chaser entered the room.

'And good morning to you, love.'

There was a short silence.

' 'Love'. I think I like it,' he smiled. 'Come here.'

John only too happily obliged and installed himself in Sherlock's lap. Where they had kissed very slow and exploringly last night, now their kisses were filled with fire. John had trouble not tearing off the clothes the man had only just put on.

After a while, Sherlock moved from John's lips to his bare chest. 'Maybe,' he whispered. 'Maybe we should just skip breakfast this morning.'

'Yeah,' John smiled. 'I don't think I'm that hungry after all.' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my awkward lovescene. I've planned some mure in the future (I hope they become less awkward).  
> You might have realised by now that everything is writtin in the same style, by the same hand, but that there are two names on top of the fic. It's because I write everything, but that doesn't mean that Winchester221B isn't involved. Because she is, very much! Only not in the putting words onto paper part. Everything I write goes to her first.  
> Anyway, just thought I might want to mention it since it's always me who has been away and not been able to write.  
> Xx Mycroffed


	10. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From now on the chapters should come quite regularly. I have to work though, so if I work on wednesday, the chapter will be posted on tuesday (if I don't have to work on that day) and if I have to work on friday it will be saturday. Unless... Oh, you'll see when I upload things c: just trust me, there will be two new chapters next week and every following week until the story is finished!

The weeks went by and as the two men discovered a rhythm, the first Quidditch match of the season came closer. And with that match, the nervousness came along. John hadn't been in a stadium since That Day. He still hadn't told Sherlock, even though the voice in the back of his head that said it wasn't fair to the other teacher had been growing stronger every day. But it wasn't easy, it hurt and John wasn't sure he would be able to keep his pokerface up.

'Goodmorning, sweetheart.' Sherlock disturbed his thoughts as he entered their living room. 'Anyone in there?'

John smiled in return. 'Oh yes, don't you worry about me. I'm as great as can be.'

'Then why aren't you nagging me about going to breakfast, like you do every morning?'

John fell silent.

'John, are you okay?'

'I'm fine, Sherlock. I promise,' answered the man who would be the referee later that day, way too quickly.

Sherlock wanted to confront him about it, but the last few weeks - if they had thaught him anything at all - had thaught him that John doesn't like to be confronted about his feelings, expecially not the ones that hurt him.

'Let's go to breakfast.' John got up and packed his Quidditchbag, that had been standing in the corner of the room since the evening before. Or at least, that's when Sherlock had seen it in that corner for the first time. He suspected it had been ready for at least a week now, judging from the duffness that hang around it. It smelled like something that hadn't seen any air in a couple of days.

And so they left. Sherlock quite hungry, which was a surprise for him as well and John as well as one could be in the same circomstances.

*

The hallways had been hard. Even though the two of them were together for a few weeks now and the entire school knew about them, there were still some Slytherins who had been calling the two men names.

Sherlock was able to ignore them, he just failed to catalogue them in his mind palace, but the chaser was experiencing more troubles. Every name, every second of negative attention the man recieved made him shiver and influence his mood. Most days it was limited to one or two Slytherins - mostly fifth or sixth years, the younger ones were to frightened of the teachers - but today, the day of the match between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the Snake House became a little bolder and at one point even accused John of not being neutral. John had had to stop Sherlock from attacking the little git, but he had agreed to take 50 points from Slytherin and give the boy detention every evening that week.

When they arrived at the stadium, all the students dissapeared to the tribunes, while the referee went to his changing room. Sherlock followed him, with a growing concern. John wasn't himself. The last couple of weeks had proven how much the chaser tended to touch or even hug Sherlock when he thought nobody was watching. It had been since yesterday evening now that Sherlock had felt John's hand somewhere on his body. John definately wasn't okay, whatever he wanted him to believe.

'Is everything alright, John?' asked Sherlock after his lover had changed.

No reaction. It was like John was lost in thought, but deeper than ever before.

'John?' The chaser looked up. 'You know its not true, right? The accusations of the Slytherin? And don't worry about the name calling: after a while we will become old news and then they'll find someone else to mock.'

John turned away again, gathering his last supplies for the match.

Ignoring what Sherlock had said to comfort him, he said: 'You really have to go now, love. The match is about to start and you don't want to miss the start.'

'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine, I'm fine... Why wouldn't I be?'

Because you are staring in the distance. Because you don't respond to any of my questions. Because you look distracted. Because you're pale, like you're suddenly scared of heights and you know you will have to fly again. Because you haven't touched me all morning. Because you haven't even looked at me, not really. Because you look unhappy.

Sherlock wanted to say all of those reasons to John, but maybe... That was a bit not good, wasn't it?

'I'll see you after the match, Sherlock.'

'Yes. Definately.' But in what state?

*

John tried to pull himself together after Sherlock had left. Okay, Sherlock knew him best and he would notice if he had a papercut in his finger, but to get Sherlock so worried... It must have been really obvious he wasn't in the present. Not today.

Maybe he should tell him. All week now, his heart and his mind had been in conflict. Today was only the top of the iceberg. His heart wanted to keep Martin to himself, scared that he would lose the man, forget who he was bit by bit, every time he told someone about him. But his mind told him that Sherlock deserved to know. He had the right to know the truth.

'... All waiting for the referee now, professor John Watson.'

It was time. The first match since Martin. It was going to be okay. Everything would be fine. He mounted his broom and flew through the opening, right unto the field.

And there his was confronted with all those faces, looking at him, just like they had so many years before. Some were cheering - mostly people dressed in red and gold, and Sherlock of course - and some were booing. It was the same, exactly the same.

*

_Suddenly he wasn't dressed in the neutral colours of a referee, but in the colours of England. His teammates were flying around him, passing him the quaffle, making sure no bludgers hit him and trying to catch the snitch. He could see Martin sitting in the family lounge. He flew closer. His lost lover was exactly like John remembered him: short, grey hair, pointing in every direction because of the wind, bright blue eyes, with some traces of white, like clouds in the sky and his red cheeks, always blushing so easily. Even the clothes were the same: Martin had dressed up for the occasion and had been wearing a suit - not his nicest one, but still... A suit - and had put an England hat on his head._

_He looked so proud, Martin. So proud of what John had acchieved. And then..._

_*_

 'Professor Watson? Is everything alright?' The voice of the commentator cut through his flashback. How long had he been flying there, without uttering a word or even reacting to the circle of players around him?

'I expect everyone to play fair and I hope I won't have to stop the game because of an accident.' He threw the quaffle in the air, and everyone was off.

John looked but did not see. Nothing about the match stayed for long in his memory. He noticed the goals - Gryffindor was leading 50 to 30, but Slytherin was catching up rather quickly - and he noticed the faul play from the Slytherins - they tried to hit the chasers with one of the bludgers - but he never really saw any of the people who made the goals, he couldn't remember who had hit the bludger. What he did remember where his eyes, going back over and over again to the same spot where Martin had been sitting all those years ago. The space Sherlock was not occupying, in that same lodge, so close to Martin. The snitch, at one point flying right past him, as if it was trying to snatch him out of his past, just before the two seekers had followed it.

*

_And then that bloody bludger had been there. One of the players of the Irish team had hit it, aimed it at John, since he had done nothing but scoring during the entire match._

_He hadn't seen it at first, he had been too distracted with Martin, the man in the tribunes, his lover. He had flown by, just after making another goal, to recieve cheering from the supporters - but above all, Martin - and stretched out his arm to try and touch the other man._

_The bludger had reached his target and..._

_*_

'John!' This time Sherlock's voice sounded through the stadium. 'John, for crying out loud, wake up! It's not the time nor the place to lose yourself in your thoughts.'

Gryffindor had scored again and the two seekers were terribly close to the snitch. The game was almost over. But not really, the game in his head was never over. John might have told himself that he was over Martin, that he was ready to try again with Sherlock, but if one Quidditch match was enough to make him turn into a crying little boy, suffering from flashbacks, maybe he wasn't so ready as he thought he was.

And it wasn't fair to Sherlock either, to lead him on while he wished that it was another man he was kissing. He was going to tell him. As soon as the match was over, in the dressing room. And he'd tell Dumbledore that he wasn't able to be a referee anymore, that he had vowed never to touch a broom again and that he resigned. Never, ever again was he going to come close to a Quidditch stadium again.

His eyes trailed back to the lodge, where he didn't see the teachers from Hogwarts, but rather...

*

_There was pain everywhere, but mostly in his chest. He lifted his hand - it took a lot of effort - and touched his forehead, not knowing where he was, but mostly because it hurt. He looked at his bloodsoaked hand. What had happened?_

_And then he realised: he was in the lodge, right in the place where Martin had been sitting only moments ago. He tried to get up, look around for Martin, desperately needing a hug or a cuddle. His lover was lying a couple of inches further, motionless, also covered in blood._

_What had happened? John wondered again._

_He crowled over to the man and picked up his head to softly put it on one of his legs._

_Martin,' he murmured. 'You can't do this to me. Please Martin, don't go, don't leave me here behind.' At this point he noticed he was sobbing. 'I don't want you to die, not when I live. Martin, Martin please stay with me, a couple more minutes and then the nurses will be here and they'll heal you. Come on Martin, hold on!'_

_But Martin shook his head. 'No, it's too late, love. I-I-I l-love you...' And then his eyes closed slowly, to never open again._

_'I love you too,' whispered John, while he kissed Martin for one last time._

*

Sherlock. John saw only Sherlock sitting there. His new lover, one that was still alive and who was planning to stay that way for quite a while longer. They love each other. Okay, maybe he wasn't Martin, but he didn't have to, because Martin was dead. Martin was dead and it was all his fault. If he hadn't been distracted... He might still live.

'I love you,' he whispered at Sherlock and at a ghosty Martin, who was suddenly standing behind him, waving like an idiot, looking very much alive.

*

_When the nurses came, John was still holding Martin's body. There was no way of getting the two of them separated, so the nurses did the only possible thing: they made Martin's body dissapear. John passed out from bloodloss as soon as the body had vanished._

_When he woke up again, the pain was gone. He was ready to go home, only one last check-up to go. But the problem was that he didn't want to go there, there were too many memories. So he went to the aurors and convinced them to lock him up for the night. He would be safe from himself, at least for one night_

_Wait, hang on a second, John thought. If this is a flashback and I'm all healed, then why does my body still hurt?_

*

'John. John, can you hear me?'

*

_What happened? Why did his body hurt? Did something happen? Did the aurors lose control over him and did he actually hurt himself? Because he wanted to, he wanted to hurt himself so badly. He was a murderer, he had to be punished and if nobody was going to do it, then why not do it yourself? Martin's death was all his fault. It was all his fault. His fault._

_It kept ringing in his head like a mantra._

*

'John! John, I really need you to wake up now! John, wake up!'

*

' _That was Sherlock's voice. And he sounded worried. I have to get out of here, I have to wake up!' he mumbled._

_John started attacking the bars of his cell._

_'Let me out!' he screamed, but no-one came to see what had happened._

_'I want to go!' He screamed, but nobody cared._

_'I want to wake up!'_

_*_

'John? John, can you hear me? Blink if you can hear me.' Sherlock's voice found it's way to his ears again. And he blinked, a sign that he didn't really have a concussion.

'W-w-w... W-w-wha-what happened?' He stuttered.

'Oh, John.' Sherlock hugged him carefully. 'Thank Merlin, you're alright. You were hit by a bludger and you hit the lodge but nobody is hurt. Well, except you of course. By the way how are you feeling?'

'A bit dizy. Where are the nurses?'

'Molly is on her way. Lestrade has gone to get her. Are you sure there's nothing else? You can tell me anything, you know.'

'I know, I-I... Sherlock, I just wanted to say... I love... I love you.'

'I love you too, John, but right now I want to you to look at me and tell me what's wrong. What happened when you were in the air? Did you have a flashback?'

John didn't respond. Of course Sherlock would figure it out.

'You did, didn't you. But what happe- of course, the accident. Someone died that day and you haven't flown a broom ever since, John why didn't you tell me? I could have helped you.'

The chaser shook his head. 'You couldn't have. You can't. You never will be able to help me. Not with this.'

After those words Molly finally appeared at the scene and John allowed himself to black out.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you like this chapter, it's a bit experimental (for me, anyway) thank you for reading, kudoing and commenting!


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be for sunday, I have to work too much and I don't really have time to write a lot. I will try to keep the pace up, though c:

Sherlock was sitting next to John in the hospital. He was worried - of course he was worried, it was his lover that was lying motionless on the bed in front of him - but he tried not to show exactly how much in front of Molly and Lestrade. They were his friends, yes, but he didn't really trust them yet.

'Mmmmm...' John moved in his bed, injuries gone - thanks to Molly - but still unconscious. 'Mmmmmm...'

'Yes, go on, John. What do you want to say?' When Lestrade and Molly looked funny at him he shrugged and defended himself: 'John talks in his sleep.'

'Mmmmma... Maaar.... Tin...'

'Martin?' Molly asked. 'Is he saying Martin?'

'Maartiin. Martin. Martin.' John continued to mumble the name.

'He is. But that's not the question. That's not where we start.'

'Then what is?'

'Who is Martin, Molly, that's the question.'

'Do you know?'

'I have an idea.'

*

John woke up feeling lost and disoriented. Where was he? How did he get here?

'Ah, John, you're awake, good.' Sherlock's voice made him open his eyes. He felt much better, all of a sudden. Just looking into those grey-blue eyes. At least today they were that colour, tomorrow they'd probably be more green. John loved Sherlock's eyes, he could look at them all day.

'Sherlock? How...? What...? What happened?'

'You were hit by a bludger.' And now John was hit by the similarities between the accident so long ago. A frog formed in his throat.

'Did anyone die? Did I kill anybody?'

'John, how can you even think that? You're the best man I've ever had the good fortune of meeting. You can never kill a man!' Sherlock leaned in, careful for the bruises that were the last sign of the accident. 'I know you,' he whispered right before he kissed him.

But the kiss wasn't like they usually were. John was not responding to any of Sherlock's movements and he didn't take any initiative. Sherlock pulled back, to look at the man he loved and to find out what was wrong. It was the eyes, he decided. The eyes were emotionless and at the same time so incredibly sad. As soon as their eyes met, the chaser looked away, like he felt guilty about something.

'John, are you alright? Did I do anything wrong? What did I do wrong?'

'You're so wrong,' the chaser mumbled. 'I'm a doctor and I failed to save the man I loved most.'

'Is it Martin?'

John's head jerked up. 'How do you know that? Who told you his name?' He sat up straight, on the same height as Sherlock, ready to punch him if necessairy.

'You did.'

'Wh-How... When did you go inside my brain? Sherlock, I told you, no experiments on me!'

'I didn't. You talk in your sleep. And since when are you a doctor?'

'When I was a chaser I studied medicine and actually graduated. That's what I was doing in the five years between the accident and teaching at Hogwarts. But it didn't help at all...' John sighed. 'Sherlock, am I a good man?'

'Of course you are, I already told you, you're the best man I ever met.'

'Then how do you explain the fact that I killed a man?'

*

John drifted off again, leaving Sherlock alone with the confession. He knew that there had been something in John's past, something that would have given him the PTSS and the psychosomatic limp, but John killing people? No, that was a bridge too far.

'Sherlock?' Molly asked. 'Are you okay?'

'Of course I am,' he answered. 'Why would I not be, just because John dropped a confession on me? Who do you take me for?

Molly didn't answer. Maybe it was for the best, after all, Sherlock was very prickly right now.

Lestrade stood behind Molly and gave her a supportive pinch in her shoulder.

'But it's not logical, it doesn't make any sense!' Sherlock exclaimed, almost waking John. 'He is John, he's a chaser how can he possibly have killed someone?'

He scanned through every conversation he ever had with John, looking for signs of this murderer John claimed to be. But no, nothing. The only clue he got was in the conversation with Mycroft, when he had met the chaser. He had pointed out a suspicious death at the same match John had the accident. Sherlock wanted to owl Mycroft, but then realised it would take too long for him to respond. He wanted answers now. So he took some floo powder and left for the Ministry.

*

John was in a different bed when he woke up. He was confused for a moment, but calmed down again when he saw Martin beside him.

'Martin.' He whispered. 'Martin wake up!'

'John, what? Sleepy,' he murmured.

'Martin is that really you? Am I in heaven?'

'No, honey, you're in bed, on Earth, with me.'

It took John a while to realise he was dreaming. But as soon as he had, the dream turned sour. Everytime Martin moved or uttered a sound, Martin would be at his side, trying to catch every moment that was left before he woke up.

Of course Martin noticed this and made a comment about it. John managed to save his skin so that he didn't suspect too much, but it hurt deep down in his heart. He was very glad to be pulled out of this bittersweet dream.

'John, you have visitors.' Molly told him softly. Behind her stood the three first years he'd learned how to fly on his first day. Maxie, Sara and Sara.

'Hi, guys,' he said. 'Have you come to watch the professor that can't fly a broom?'

They wiggled nervously on their feet, the Sara from Hufflepuff hiding something behind her back. It was her who broke the silence eventually.

'We brought you some flowers.' She held our her hands to reveal a small bouquet of wild flowers.

'Thank you, Sara.' John took the flowers from her and hugged the small girl. 'They're beautiful.'

'We just wanted to make sure you were okay,' the Gryffindor Sara added. 'We had kind of expected professor Holmes here, but he must have gone to his chambers.'

'Yes, now that she mentions it,' John frowned. 'Where is Sherlock?'

'He left. He wanted to have some words with his brother.' Molly placed her hands on two shoulders. 'Thank you so much for visiting, but professor Watson has some more visitors and after that he has to rest. You'll see him again in front of your class.'

John smiled at the trio when they left the room.

'They are so cute,' Molly said. 'And so small.'

'We were the same, back then,' remembered John. 'By the way, where is Greg?'

'He had to teach. He'll be back here as soon as he can.'

He smiled at her. 'Seems like I'm very popular at the moment. Who are my other visitors?'

'The Gryffindor and Hufflepuff prefects. Anderson and Donovan?'

John's face darkened.

'I can tell them to come back later if you want to,' Molly added quickly.

'No, no, it's fine let them in. But could you leave us some privacy, perhaps? You never know.'

After Molly had left to go and get the two students, she didn't return and John braced himself for the conversation with the two idiots.

*

'To what do I owe the pleasure, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked. 'I didn't expect you back here so quickly. After all, I thought you set me out of your room just a couple of weeks ago.'

'You know, don't you?'

'I know a lot of things, yes. Anything specific you want to know?'

'You know what happened on the day of John's accident. You said someone died. Who did?'

'Haven't you figured it out yet? Sherlock, how dissapointing.'

'I don't have time for your games, Mycroft, just tell me.'

After Mycroft had explained the situation and why John saw himself as a killer, Sherlock was dumbstruck.

'Did I finally find an off-switch?'

Sherlock pulled himself together and managed: 'Very funny, haha.'

'John asked me not to tell you this, but you deserve it. It's not fair to you, after all you have to fill a dead man's place.'

'Thank you very much, brother dear, I hope I'll see you never again.'

'Wishful thinking I'm afraid.'

When Sherlock said 'Hogwarts' very clearly in the fireplace, Mycroft made a noise that sounded a lot like chuckling. 'Didn't I tell you? There's a problem with the floopowder network. It works only in one way right now.'

Sherlock sighed and dramatically slammed the door of his brother's office.

After a one-hour walk, Sherlock finally arrived at a place where he could use the floopowder again. He suspected that Mycroft had switched off the network himself.

Standing in the fireplace, he transported himself to the hospital, which was completely deserted.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN on Sunday: next chapter will be for next week, I fear. I've been working for four days in a row and it took a lot of me. I didn't even get to /read/ some fanfics. But next week is better, I have my days off between the days work so. I should be able to update normally.


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the next chapter! It took quite a while, I know, but I'm doing my best to post again on friday. One of my readers assured me that it was not a problem to miss a day, but I feel a bit guilty to leave you wonderful readers hanging without a chapter.  
> I only have 4 days of work left, so after that my writing speed should move up again.  
> Anyway, thank you, wonderful readers, for reading, kudo'ing and commenting. It's the highlight of my day!  
> If you want to contact me you can find me as @martonystrieff on twitter, don't hesitate to ask any questions or send me any prompts c:  
> Xx Mycroffed

Where was John? he wondered. Did he already recover enough to leave this place? No, Molly would never let him. So, again, where was John? His brain couldn't work properly when it concerned John. He became distracted and thought about the - No, not now, he mentaly slapped himself. You have to focus. On John. Images of a very naked John suddenly floated in front of his eyes. Not that side of John. Save John, that's all you need to do.

The logical person to ask was Molly: she was, after all, the nurse who looked after John. She was supposed to be close to him at all times, expecially when the patient had just been attacked by a Slytherin beater. If he ever found out who it was that had beated his John to pulp, the world wouldn't be large enough to hide him.

'Sherlock?' Molly entered the hospital. 'You're back earlier than I expected. How's John? Is he awake now?'

'Molly, this is not the time for making jokes.'

She frowned. 'I don't understand, wha- I'm not joking. I'm genuinly interested about John's health.'

'John is gone.'

'See, I knew- wait, what?'

'John has dissapeared.'

'He was here only moments ago. I only left because he wanted a bit of privacy with Donovan and Anderson. Who could have possibly done this?'

'Someone who enjoys drama, particularly when it's his own making. He's also clever enough to convince someone else to make sure John is hurt and by doing that he hurted me of course. He is bored and now it's my turn. He also has access to the inner castle, which means it almost has to be a teacher.'

'Sherlock.'

'He hasn't been so careless to do anything himself, so there are no clues leading to him. This is quite a puzzle.'

'Sherlock, it's Moriarty.'

'But of course, how did I miss that?'

'No, I meant... It's litterally Moriarty. In the door opening.'

*

When John opened his eyes again, he had no idea where he was. The light was blue-ish, which made him think for a while that he was under water, but when the colour changed and john realised he couldn't actually see any shapes, he realised he was blindfolded.

What had happened?

It wasn't the first time today he had wondered that, but each and every time, Sherlock had been there to give him an answer. Sherlock- where was he? Was he alright? Was he safe? John worried more about his safety that about his own.

A noise stopped him thinking. It sounded like they were forging swords and torturing people out there. John felt the ground with his hands. He felt straw on there, like it was the only cover for the floor and a poor attempt to male the ground comfortable enough to sleep on.

Wait- was he in an oldfashioned prisoncell? Like one you could still find in movies and history books? No, that wasn't possible.

He was feeling around, trying to figure out exactly how large his cell was when his hands couldn't move any further, and not because there was a wall. He was chained, like a wild beast.

When he wanted to raise his voice and demand his guard for answers, the door opened.

*

'What do you want?' Sherlock snapped.

'I just... Wanted to warn you Sherlock. It is so very dangerous to care about people, you never know what might happen to them.' James Moriarty entered the room and Molly couldn't help but look at him. He had never really attracted her attention before, mostly because Sherlock would hiss and puff if she did, but she kind of liked what she saw. He was as short as John, maybe a little taller, so that made him a normal guy's height. His grin was actually pretty adorable and Molly almost swooned over him.

'What did you do to him?'

'I didn't do anything. John came to my rooms on his own free will.' Jim walked around Sherlock, trying to lure the anger out of him. 'You didn't expect that, did you?'

Sherlock was dumbstruck.

'Oh my, I seemed to have found a mute button. Who would have thought: Sherlock Holmes in love with a Quidditch player named John Watson. He even shuts up when someone talks badly about him.' He looked at Molly with an air of 'can you believe it?'.

'Let him go.' Sherlock was desperately trying to control himself not to punch Moriarty in the face.

'Or what? You can't do anything, dear. Dumbledore will fire you if you either attack me or go tell him what I did. You have no proof. He will have no choice.' He grinned. 'I have to say, I'm a bit dissapointed, Sherlock. I would have expected more of you.'

Sherlock stepped closer to Moriarty and grabbed him by his collar. 'Where did you take him? Tell me now!'

'Somewhere you can't follow.' He tugged himself free and apparated, leaving Sherlock alone in the sick bay with Molly.

*

John heard the sound of two other people joining him in the cell. He wondered who they were and why they were here.

'Hello,' he said. 'Who are you?'

'Professor Watson?' A voice, who was regrettably very familiar to John, answered.

'Yes, that's me, but I already knew that and I asked you a question.'

'I'm Sally Donovan, sir,' the first voice said.

'And I'm Philip Anderson,' the second voice added.

Great, John thought. I'm stuck in an ancient prisoncell with two idiots. How the hell did this happen? How did I get here in the first place? What was the last thing he remembered?

He remembered waking up from his nightmare with Martin, to find out that Sherlock had gone to his brother of all people! Molly had been there though, and she has kindly woken him just when he needed to be awakened.

He remembered the three little girls bringing him flowers and caring about their flying instructor, who hadn't really been a good teacher. They could see what he couldn't, something they must have liked.

He remembered the two prefects talking to him in the hospital, accusing him of all kinds of things he really didn't want to talk about. For one, they thought he didn't love Sherlock, that he was just using the Defence against the Dark Arts teacher to get a reputation of himself at Hogwarts: sleeping with the teacher nobody could ever love.

And second, they refused to go without delivering a message from professor Moriarty. _Enjoy your time in the hospital. JM_

With one question answered, another one arose. Who would do such a thing?

The answer wasn't hard to find. Moriarty.

*

Sherlock wanted to kick every chair and every bed in the room, until they were all broken, so that he could hit the pieces. He wanted to take out his wand and cast spells the average wizard wouldn't even know or care about. He wanted... He wanted John...

He thought about Moriarty's last words. "Somewhere you can't follow." But he'd follow John anywhere, everywhere! He was going to find John and nobody was going to stop him, expecially not a man called James Moriarty.

*

John had gone to Moriarty's rooms after the message. He wanted to confront him and ask him why for goodness sake he did that. He was only slightly annoyed (Moriarty was lucky on that part) but that didn''t mean he wasn't going to absolutely obliterate him.

'Jim? Jim!' He banged on the door. 'I know you're in there!'

The door opened.

'Hello, John.' Moriarty stood in the doorway. 'How nice to see you.'

'Oh, shut it. I've got some questions for you.'

'By all means, please do come in. I'll try to answer your questions right away.'

John entered the room but did not get comfortable, even if Moriarty told him he could. No, instead, he immediately attacked him with questions: 'What did you try to accomplish with sending Donovan and Anderson to me in the hospital? And why the hell would I enjoy being in a hospital?'

'I just wanted to show you some compassion, hoping you'd come here so that I could do this!' He took aout his wand and suddenly, everything turned black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note on Saturday:  
> Yeeeeeeeey! It reached a thousand hits! Thank you so much!  
> About the chapters, i think I'm going to slow down to 1 chapter a week. Things keep coming up and now I'm sick so I hope I'll get the next chapter ready before wednesday.  
> Thank you so much for reading, kudo'ing and commenting, I love you like John loves jam!


	13. Chapter 12

_Somewhere you can't follow._ The words kept turning and turning in Sherlock's head. What did it mean? Obviously it was a place Moriarty thought was unique to him and available to him alone. Somewhere Sherlock can't come without doing some really advanced magic. Or at least that was what Moriarty thought.

Sherlock had, as soon as he and John had started dating, cast a locating spell on John, without him noticing of course, or he would've become super angry. He'd just thought 'better safe than sorry' and done it behind John's back. And that was his salvation right now. A locating spell.

It was time for him to activate it.

*

'John!'

John started to wake up again, after, apparently, falling asleep again, blindfolded and in a very uncomfortable position. He suspected Moriarty had something to do with it.

'John, wake up!'

Who was with him again? Oh yes, Anderson and Donovan. Why for god's sake were they trying to wake him up? All he wanted was to sleep until Sherlock came. Because, yes, he would come and save him. Why wouldn't he? John smirked to himself. Sherlock would go crazy if something bad happened to his chaser, let alone by Moriarty.

'John, you really need to open your eyes now.'

It was definately Donovan talking. He just wanted to punch her and go to sleep again. If he could reach his wand- His wand. Did he still have it? Moriarty would be stupid to let him keep it. It was almost asking him to escape. He tried to feel around in his pockets, but soon realised his hands couldn't reach.

Great, he thought, I'm completely stuck with two idiots.

The door once again opened and a hooded figure came in and pulled John up.

'Hey!' He protested. 'You could ask nicely!'

The glare he recieved in return made him shut up. If looks could kill...

The hooded figure dragged him along to a rooftop, where Moriarty was waiting for him. As soon as he spotter the potions teacher, he refused to move or to say another word. Even when Moriarty started asking questions, his lips remained closed.

*

Sherlock found himself in front of a wall on the seventh floor. There was nothing there, if he believed his eyes, but he remembered a story, an old story, about a wonderful room that adjusted himself to whatever the person who needed it wanted. The Room of Requirement. So there was only one option: Sherlock had to believe. Believe that the room existed, believe that John was in there and believe that it would show him, open in the same place. Because that was what he needed most now, a tight hug from John.

Unknowingly, he had closed his eyes and pictured the door bringing him to John. When he opened his eyes again, the door in front of him had opened to show him a rooftop.

The rooftop wasn't anywhere Sherlock recognised, but that was okay, because he knew who was behind this anyway. Moriarty. He was standing there as well, waiting for him.

'I wish I'd brought you a gift. But then again, you wouldn't be happy with it anyways.'

'Ah, Sherlock. You found me, you're the first.' Moriarty frowned.

'Thank you.'

'That was not a compliment.'

'Yeah it was.'

'Okay, yeah. It was. But then again this was always what I wanted. Lure you up here because Sherlock, like I might have mentioned last year: I owe you a fall. A deep one, preferably, all the way into darkness.' He smirked. 'Are you ready for it? Because this is the final problem. The one you and I have to solve.'

'Where is John?'

'Ah yes, your loverboy. Come out, Johnnyboy! Come out and play!'

A large dog came out. It had the same sand brown colour as John's hair for a fur and it limped almost unnoticably with his left back leg. He came to sherlock and sniffed his hand, just before licking it.

'John?'

'It is only transfiguration, of course, nothing permanent. Very painfull, from time to time, changing into a dog. Expecially if the wizard changing you wants you to experience pain. He was very brave, your John. Never said a word...'

'Change him back!' Sherlock demanded, his hand entangled into John's fur.

'And you know the tricky part? Only the wizard who changed you can turn you back.' Moriarty smirked. 'So be nice, or your John will stay like this forever.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock understood why Moriarty did this. First of all, it had been torture for John and he had been trying to get information from him about Sherlock. And secondly, it was a way to keep him calm, because if he wasn't, John would stay a dog forever.

'Well, maybe I just want you off my back. You've come close, Sherlock, too close. And now it's time to get rid of you.'

I promise I'll leave you alone. As soon as I suspect you're on a case, I'll back off. You have my word.'

'Oh what would be the fun in that?'

*

Moriarty had beaten him, tried one of the threee Unforgivable Curses on him, but John still hadn't as much as breathed a word. And that annoyed him endlessly. Moriarty was the kind of guy who got what he wanted whenever he wanted it. So when John didn't do what he was told, Moriarty turned to his only option left: transfiguration. He had of course considered using a potion, but this way was easier. No more preparing stuff, just magic.

'One last time, Watson. Who is Sherlock working for?'

Of course, John didn't say anything. But this time it didn't come as a surprise to Moriarty. No, he had hoped this would happen, so that he could point his wand and change one of John's limbs into one of a dog.

The look on John's face had been pure gold. It'd been a mix of pure angst, anger and a lot of desire for revenge. He had taken a picture of it: John, half transformed into a dog, with a murderous expression on his face.

Every time John didn't answer a question, Moriarty made it a bit more painful to change the bodypart. So by the time he changed John's nose, he was howling because of the pain.

But John hadn't said a word. Like a good dog, he had stayed loyal to his owner rather than drag him through the mud that had been waiting for him for quite some time now.

*

John had been a dog before, when he had been goofing around with his sister, a long time ago, but this was beyond comparison. It was so humitiating to be forced into the form of another, smaller animal, piece by piece, every change becoming more and more painful. And now, Sherlock had seen him like this as well. His lover.

John was now standing proudly at his side while his hand sent waves of pleasure through him as Sherlock played with his fur without even realising he was doing it. He leaned closer until he was almost leaning against the other man's leg.

'John, Are you okay?' he whispered.

John let out a small whine. _I am now, but I'm hurt, deep inside._

'Ignore him, he's barely worth your attention.' Moriarty tried to get Sherlock's attention. It worked, only not in the way he had wanted it to.

'He is always worth my attention. He is my love, my rock in the branding, my everything. He is my heart where I am his extra brain. I'd choose him in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred words, in any version of reality, I'd find him and I'd choose him. He...' Sherlock looked at the dog briefly. 'He is my work now.'

Moriarty was baffled.

'So before you ever again threaten my love's life, consider this: I will find you, I will follow you and I will skin you. Because there's no way you're getting away with that!'

If dogs could smile, John was certainly doing the equivalent of that now: his tongue was hanging out of his mouth and he had bared all his teeth, relaxed.

Moriarty just snickered. 'Well, what a beautiful declaration of love, dear. But if that was supposed to get you free then I'm afraid you rather failed. Because, you see, Sherlock, I don't just want a promise. Promises can be broken. I want a permanent solution, so that I won't have to worry about you anymore.'

'And how do you think you'll manage that?' Sherlock was planning on playing the game, before Moriarty could do something crazy and kill them both.

'I need you to jump, Sherlock.'

'Why would I do that?'

'Because I'll kill John and Lestrade and Molly and everyone you like if you don't. I want you to kill yourself so that your friends are safe and sound. Could you do that for them? Could you possibly give up your life in favor of theirs?'

Sherlock walked to the edge of the rooftop.

John whined again. _Please, Sherlock. Don't do it!_

'You promise you'll leave them alone?' Sherlock asked.

'Yes, I promise.' Moriarty was glowing with happiness.

'And you'll change John back?'

'Yes! Now jump already!'

Sherlock looked around one more time. 'John,' he said. 'I should've told you this before. I love you.'

And then he jumped.

There was complete silence and the only thing that broke it was the sad cry of a dog.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might have seen it in last week's notes, but for the people who haven't:  
> I've decided to post only one chapter a week. It's too much writing to get two done in a week and I'm almost never happy with the outcome. But don't worry: there are only three chapters left and even though the day on which I post them will vary, the three weeks will be over before you know it c:  
> Thank you for reading, kudo'ing and commenting! I adore you like Mycroft adores umbrellas c:


	14. Chapter 13

Jim had to resist the urge to run around and dance on that rooftop there. Sherlock Holmes was dead, finally, after years of annoying him, although he kind of was a good puzzle. Anyway. It didn't matter anymore. The final problem was solved, he was still alive. Everything was awesome.

The dog at his feet was growing restless. He was growling at him and looked ready to kill.

'Let's do as I promised, because I am a man of my word.' He started to change John back, very slowly and in reverse order.

As soon as his mouth had transformed he shouted: 'Sherlock!'

How adorable. And so incredibly loyal. Maybe he should get one as well.

'Why did you do that? What was that good for?' John had turned around and was crying now, mourning his dead lover.

'Because.' He sighed. Ordinary people. Nothing but trouble. 'He was annoying me and he was one of the biggest challenges of my life. It's a shame it's over now.'

'You git!' John, half dog, half human, tried to attack him. But his body was working against him: it was still changing, so it wouldn't listen to the brain's orders. So halfway his jump, John fell down on the floor.

'Sherlock,' he sobbed.'I carry a curse. Everyone I love gets killed. I will never love anyone again.'

'Now, come, come. Isn't that a tiny bit overdramatic, mr Dramaqueen?'

'You, shut up and go away, go away now and go away fast!'

*

Sherlock was falling. He couldn't believe he had actually jumped for John. It had been like another part of his brain had taken over and disided everything for him. The part where he stored the emotions. The jumping part had been over in a split second, like he could've expected. He didn't linger at the edge of the roof, no he just jumped. It was the only way to save John.

Then he felt his body turn automatically, making sure he'd land on his hands and feet.

'What is happening?' he mumbled.

With no-one to talk to and therefore nobody to answer his question, Sherlock could only whisper it quietly to himself. 'Half cat.'

He managed to land safely, without hurting anything - did cats really have nine lives? - and he immediately lied down on the ground, just in case Jim or John would look over the edge. It took him a good five minutes before he got bored and stood to find a way up, to John.

*

John couldn't watch him fall. Not his second lover. He couldn't even watch him lie dead at the bottom of the building. No, he was never planning on going down again. Instead, Jim was a much more likely target. After all, he had just killed a man, more or less.

 Jim still stood there watching him almost drown himself in tears, with an amuzed smile on his face.

'What's your problem, Jim? Why did you have to do this?'

Moriarty smirked. 'I know, but you'll always have to guess.'

'Have I told you I hate you?

'Only five or six times. Enough to bore me.'

John moved slightly towards the edge. If he just took one look... No, no. He wasn't going to look. Not at all.

'Are you sure you're not going to look?' Moriarty teased.

John ignored the psychopath and stepped away again. He couldn't bring himself to look anyway. After all, it was still Sherlock lying there. His mate, his friend, but above all, his lover. And oh how John loved the teacher. He'd even follow him to the end of the world if it was necessairy.

But one brief look would maybe help him close this chapter, seeing him dead might just about clear his mind of all the hopes in there.

So he stepped closer to the edge once again a peeked over. What he saw made him blush from excitement.

'Looking for someone?' a deep baritone spoke from the door opening at the other side of the roof.

John turned around. He would recognise that voice anywhere.

'Sh-Sherlock?'

'Yes, love, it's me, still in one piece.' He gently smiled toward John.

Sherlock took a step forwards, in Moriarty's general direction.

'Don't even think about it, Sherlock,' Moriarty shouted. 'One more step and I'll hex John.' He took out his wand and pointed it at the chaser.

Sherlock immediately stopped walking. He couldn't risk getting his lover killed.

'And who says I''l let you hex me?' John grabbed his wand, which was still in his pocket - careless, Moriarty, careless - and pointed it at Moriarty in return.

'What now, Moriarty? You've got nowhere to go, absolutely nowhere. There are two ways off this roof: by jumping or by stairs. John's in the way for you to jump and I'm in front of the door. So I ask again: what now?' Sherlock sounded so damn happy about the situation.

'Sherlock,' John hissed.

The teacher gave him a confused look. 'What?' he signed with his hands.

'Don't give him any ideas.'

'I shouldn't give him ideas, but you just told him I might have.' He smirked. 'Really clever, John.'

'Look at you two boys,' Moriarty grinned, like his situation wasn't as dark as the teachers thought it was. 'Argueing, always argueing.'

'We're not...!' John protested, but he was cut off by Sherlock.

'You're right. What should we do then?'

'Look after me.' He threw down his wand and took out a gun. As Sherlock tried to come closer and pull it out of his hands, Moriarty pointed it at John. 'One more step and I shoot, love.' He used the pet name mockingly.

'Moriarty, please, don't,' the defence against the dark arts teacher pleaded.

'Oh, do I have the privilege of seeing a begging Holmes?'

 Sherlock didn't answer. Instead, he took out his wand and pointed it quickly at Moriarty. 'Expelliarmus!'

The gun didn't move. At all. It stayed in Moriarty's hand, still pointing at the chaser.

'Oh, dear, not what you expected to happen?' Moriarty mocked him, like he had predicted all this, wanted this to happen.

 Both men just grinned their teeth. They had hoped the spell would work like it would've done on a wand, but no, of course they didn't have such luck. So now they were standing there, at an impasse. Nobody could move without getting fired at, by spell or by gun, it didn't matter. One move was enough to blow the entire situation up.

'You know the people you care about could still he killed, right, Sherlock?' Moriarty said after a while.

'What are you talking about? I jumped. Your men saw me jump, I did what you wanted me to do.'

'Yes, they saw you jump, but they also saw you come back up again. I mean, you weren't really sneaky about that, were you?' He grinned.

'You can call them off!' Sherlock yelled in a panic - not that he'd ever tell John he had one. 'I jumped, you never said you wanted me to die.'

'I said I wanted a permanent solution. Doesn't that involve you dead?'

'Call them off. It's two of us against one of you. You'll never make it. Call them off.'

'You didn't think I'd make a plan in case this happened? Oh, I'm dissapointed, Sherlock. I expected more,from you.' Moriarty pointed the gun at his own head. 'Guess what. I might not have people to kill everybody, but I do have a way to get you sacked. Goodbye, Sherlock.'

'No, don't!' John shouted. 'Please, don't.'

But too late, Moriarty shot himself and fell down on the floor, blood flowing everywhere.

'What do we do now, Sherlock?' Now John was panicking. 'What do we bloody hell do now?!'

'We stay calm, very calm. We try some magic and hope it brings him back. If it doesn't we find some excuse why he suddenly dissapeared and then we hope Dumbledore doesn't find out. He can't ever find out. Any of this. Or we can forget our jobs and our carreers in the wizarding world.'

'Oh god. Oh god. Sherlock, Dumbledore is going to find out so soon. It wouldn't surprise me if he knew already. He's the bloody head master of this school. Do you really think he won't know if something happened -'

Sherlock pressed his lips on John's. 'Please, shut up,' he mumbled and he kissed John again, more gentle this time.

John's hands automatically moved up to Sherlock's hair, playing with the teacher's curls. 'I love you so bloody much, Sherlock.'

'Yes I know.' John softly hit Sherlock. 'I love you too.'

This lead to only more kissing, which made them almost - almost - forget that Moriarty was lying next to them, dead. And if they hadn't been standing in his blood, they would've gone further than kissing. But every time they moved, the wet sound remembered them where they were and what had happened.

'We need to do something,' John said after a couple of minutes. 'We really do.'

Sherlock reluctantly let go of his lover to look him in the eyes. 'You're right. You're absolutely right and for once, I wished you weren't.'

'Let's clean him up.'

A couple of spells later, Moriarty was still lying dead on the rooftop, but at least all the blood had been removed. Unfortunately, Moriarty had been too late for any healing spells, let alone muggle medicine.

'So what now?' John looked at the body, still not knowing what to do.

'Now we hope.'

So they just sat there, watching the sun set, throughout the night, hoping nobody would notice a thing. But, as their luck would have it, someone did.

Another figure appeared in the Room of Requirement - because, even though it didn't look like it, that was still where they were - and John and Sherlock looked at it with a feeling of dread. Both men recognised the new visiter and neither of them was happy about it. Because, standing in front of them, was Albus Dumbledore.

'My office. Now.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everybody. I've finished writing the entire story (don't worry, you'll still get your two last chapters this week) and now I'm looking forward to a new 'big' project. I've got some ideas, but I don't know with which one to start. So this is where I need your help. I've got four ideas and I'd love it if you let me know which one you'd like me to work out first.  
> The four options are:  
> My wereJohn story that's already on here  
> A series of one-shots about John and Sherlock as starcrossed lovers  
> A new Martony story in my series  
> A crossover between Sherlock and Star Trek.  
> I'm available in the comments here, on twitter as @martonystrieff and on tumblr (not that much, but I'll let you know anyway) as @britsaar.  
> Thank you very much in advance, I love you like Sherlock likes a good case.


	15. Chapter 14

'I warned you last year, Sherlock. One more thing, one more argument with professor Moriarty, even if it was about a pair of socks - something that is very important, though - you could forget it. And now look at what happened. I've got a dead teacher, one that is actually a cat but looks human through magic and a mortified ex-chaser who got turned into a dog, but who didn't turn fully human yet. Sherlock. John. What am I going to do with you?'

John opened his mouth to give a suggestion.

'It was a rethorical question, John. I've been very patient Ith the two of you. First, it was the troll, which, inexplicably, found it's way onto Hogwarts ground. I considered that you could be right, that time. After all, you did manage to find a way to get rid of it. The next year, the spiders came out of the Dark Forest. Of course I knew they were in there, Hagrid told me when he started working here, but he also promised they wouldn't harm a fly.'

Sherlock grinned an nodded to himself, like it had been a good puzzle to slove, those spiders.

'And then the third time we had a dementor attack. And not just a normal one, no, only the most powerful of patronuses worked. It scared the living daylights out of some students. We lost a lot of pupils that year because of you two.'

'I'm sorry to hear that, sir, but-'

'No 'but's. This is my speach and I won't let you disturb it. Those three things were relatively simple and harmless compared to last year. We had a wherewolf running around on the grounds. A wherewolf, Sherlock. And if it had been a tamed one, it would've been fine, if it had stayed in the forest, then it could've lived here and it wouldn't have harmed a fly. But it has hurt people. It bit a girl who now suffers for the rest of her life. And this year, don't even let me get started on this year. You killed a man and dragged innocent people into this: John, Greg, Molly. All people I will have to find replacements for. Do you know how hard it is to find good teachers nowadays? Do you?' He looked at the two other teachers, who were just staring at the ground. 'That wasn't a rethorical question, you can answer it.'

'No, sir,' both John and Sherlock mumbled.

'So, no matter how hard this is for all of us, you are hereby sacked from the School of Whitchcraft and Wizardry of Hogwarts. You have five minutes to explain yourself and after that, you have till dawn tomorrow to pack your bags and leave. Including Molly and Greg.'

'But they haven't done anything, sir!' John shouted, indignated with Dumbledore's decision.

'They have helped you and knew what was happening. I made it perfectly clear at the beginning of the year that everyone who knew anything or who suspected a plan to come and tell me. They ignored the rules and now they'll be punished for it.'

'But, sir-'

'No, John. You can't change my mind. But I would like to know how you acquiered that rather nice set of ears and that tail.'

So John told the whole story, whith some adjustments from Sherlock when he forgot something. He started with the potion, the transformation, how they fell in love to move on to the Quidditch match and how he got in hospital. 'And I'm sure you know the rest, sir.'

Dumbledore nodded. 'Your five minutes have ran out. Time to pack your bags, sirs.'

With a mumbled 'yes, sir' both men left the room and returned to their own, after hearing 'and you tell Greg and Molly' being shouted at their backs.

*

'We need to talk.' Two very similar letters left John and Sherlock's room that evening. They couldn't post-pone it any more, or the other teachers wouldn't have any time left to pack their bags.

Molly arrived first, quickly followed by Greg. Sherlock had forbidden John to say a word, so the last one wasn't surprised when Sherlock started to talk.

'We've all been sacked.'

'What do you mean, we've all been sacked?' Greg asked.

'Exactly what I'm telling you. The four of us won't be able to start to teach again tomorrow morning.'

'Sherlock!' Hissed John. 'You could be a tiny bit nicer and explain things.'

'I'm getting there,' Sherlock hissed back. 'So you know how Dumbledore threatened to sack me and Moriarty and how, at the beginning of the year, he told everyone to talk to him if they ever noticed something strange?'

Both of them nodded.

'Well, you ignored that last piece. You knew. You knew something was odd and yet you didn't say anything, even though Dumbledore explicitly told you to do it. You got involved. It's always dangerous to get involved.'

'To be honest, Sherlock, it was worth it. It was worth every second of my time.' Molly grabbed both Sherlock's hands and squeezed them softly.

'Thank you, Molly.' Sherlock smiled sadly at her. 'I should leave you so that you can pack. Now don't forget, dawn tomorrow.'

Both of them nodded and left the room. As soon as they were alone, Sherlick collapsed in John's arms and murmured 'what have I done?' into the chaser's shoulder.

*

When both men went back to their own room, they found Mycroft waiting for them.

'What do you want?' Sherlock snapped as soon as he saw his brother.

'Dumbledore contacted me and told me what happened. Nice set of animal features, John.' Mycroft made a poor attempt at smiling. 'How could you do this, Sherlock. How many times have I told you not to get involved?'

'Shut up, Mycroft. There wasn't anything we could do to stop him. He kidnapped John and I was never going to let him hurt my chaser.' He looked at his lover with so much adoration in his glance that John automatically blushed.

'So you killed Moriarty just for the sake of an emotion? I thought I thaught you better, brother dear.'

'Now listen very closely, Mycroft.' John had enough of te older man's games. 'Moriarty killed himself, trust me. He wanted Sherlock dead and the only thing that saved him were his catlike abilities. As for myself, Moriarty turned me into a dog. A dog, Mycroft. And now I'll never be fully human again because there's some stupid rule in the magic world that prevents other people to mess with one person's transfiguration spell. I'll stay like this forever. Do you think I like that? Huh? Do you really think I wentlooking for this to happen?'

Mycroft stayed quiet under the man's accusations. Even though it didn't always seem like it, he was just worried about his little brother. He wanted to protect him from the world, from being hurt, but more often than protecting him, he was the one who hurt him. He needed to be careful. Humans were delicate, even Holmes'.

'Just as I thought. Come on, Sherlock, we've got work to do.'

Without as much as a second glance towards the older Holmes brother, John left the room to go pack his bags.

Sherlock on the other hand hesitated before going. He knew his brother was trying to protect them from the evils of the world, even though he wasn't really that good in it and mostly ended up hurting them, and he did appreciate it. Sometimes.

'Mycroft,' he sighed. 'He didn't mean it, he's-'

'Don't apologize for him, brother dear. He meant every word of what he said.' There was a small hesitation. 'He hates me, doesn't he?'

'No!' Sherlock yelled. 'No he doesn't, of course he doesn't. You're my brother. He knows you care about me and that's all that matters.'

Mycroft smiled weakly. 'Thank you, Sherlock.'

'You're welcome. Maybe it's time for you to find yourself a little goldfish, Mycroft. It softens you, takes the edges off. Plus, more people like you, all of a sudden.' He laughs softly. 'Yes, they definately like you better when you're in love.'

Mycroft blushed. 'Shut up, Sherlock. And never, ever bring that up again!'

'But you know it's true, don't you?'

'Oh, shut up.' He smiled and gave Sherlock a gentle push. 'I might give it a try.'

Sherlock's smile turned into a grin. 'Good, good. Do you- do you need any help?'

'God, no. I'll figure this one out on my own.'

'Sherlock! We need to pack!' John's voice interupted the conversation between the two brothers.

'Sorry, I have to....' Sherlock pointed towards his bedroom.

'Yeah, of course, I understand. Go, Sherlock, and be happy.'

With a last smile, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher turned around and ran towards his bedroom and his lover.

*

The four of them had gathered in front of the school, at dawn. Neither of them wanted to leave, but they had no choice but to go. John turned around one last time to look at the place where so many things had happened to him. He had lived there for seven years when he was a teen and now, returning as a teacher, he even found himself a husband. That's what he wanted Sherlock to be, at least.

'I'm going to miss it,' Molly mused softly.

Greg nodded. 'I never thought it would end like this, you know. I always thought I'd drop dead somewhere behind a desk or something.'

'That doesn't sound that attractive to me,' Sherlock smiled. 'To be honest, I was always bored.'

'Always?' John raised his eyebrow and looked at his lover questioningly.

'Most of the time.'

The four of them laughed.

'At least we've got this.' Greg waved his arms around, indicating their friendship.

'Yes, yes we do.' Molly pulled all of them into a group hug. Even though Sherlock protested quite loudly, she didn't let go until after a couple of minutes. 'Promise me you'll keep contact.'

Greg gave his adress immediately. 'If you ever feel like you need someone.'

'Thank you, Greg,' she smiled.

'You're very welcome at our place as well, Molly, but we first need to find one.' John glanced at Sherlock, hoping he'd give some information about a home.

And he did. 'I know a place where we can live, if we split the rent.'

John grinned and pulled his lover into a kiss. 'I love you.'

'I know you do, Darling. And I love you too.'

The four of them walked off, into the sunrise, apparating together, leaving Hogwarts behind, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I repeat the same question I asked at the end of last chapter. What fanfic idea would you like me to work on next?  
> I've recieved one vote up to now for the were!John story.  
> I'll list the four options again:  
> were!John (1 vote)  
> Sherlock/Star TRek crossover  
> Johnlock as starcrossed lovers; a series of oneshots  
> a next part of my Martony series; the Airport Happenings.  
> Thank you for reading, leaving comments and kudo'ing. I couldn't do this without you and I'd love to know what you want me to do next.  
> xx Mycroffed


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go, the last chapter. I loved writing every part of it and I hope you loved reading it. I will miss being able to work on it, to work everything out, piece after piece...  
> Anyway, now I present to you, without further ado:  
> The epilogue of When a Potion goes wrong.

***THREE MONTHS LATER***

'They're here, Sherlock!' It was a right mess at 221B Baker Street. Between Sherlock's experiments and John's books and jumpers, there was almost no place in the living room.

'Yes, let them in, John. I'm ready!'

John went downstairs to welcome their friends. They had all found jobs in the muggle world and were all quite happy with it. Greg worked as a Detective Inspector for the New Scotland Yard, where he managed to solve almost no cases without Sherlock's help as a consulting detective. Molly disected the bodies the two men dug up and John blogged about it. They saw each other almost daily now and finally, Sherlock had agreed for them to come over. He was probably tired of John nagging him about it.

As John opened the door, he was immediately hugged by the DI of the company.

'Hello, Greg. Molly.' He smiled. 'Please, come in.'

He took their coats and left them behind downstairs, already ushering them upstairs. He heard some muffled cries from Molly, but just suspected them to be from happiness, nothing else. He followed the two of them upstairs, but halted in the door opening. The curtains had been closed and candles lit, so that the soft yellowy light created a romantic atmosphere. Around the door, many rose petals were lying on the ground and in the middle of those petals stood Sherlock.

'Sherlock. What's going on, love?'

He didn't answer and just went down on one knee and took a small box out of his suit jacket.

John almost automatically started to tear up.

'John Hamish Watson.'

'Leave the middle name out, you git.'

'John Hamish Watson, will you marry me?'

John almost jumped in Sherlock's lap as he cried his answer. 'Yes! Yes if course I will.' He pressed his lips on Sherlock's, putting his arms around his shoulders, holding him as close as possible.

Sherlock struggled to escape John's embrace to give him the engagement ring. It was a simple, gold ring with a small carving. _I'd be lost without my blogger._

'It's so beautiful,' John sobbed as Sherlock put it around his finger. 'I love you, Sherlock!'

The other man smiled. 'I know you do. I love you too.'

It was only when the kiss got well on its way that John remembered there were visitors. He pulled back to look at Molly's crying and smiling face.

'That was so romantic,' she stuttered, between small sobs. 'I can't believe you two are engaged now. Congratulations!'

'Yeah, congratulations, mate. Well done.' Greg hugged the two of them, showing his support. 'And I have a confession to make.'

The three others looked at him as he blushed.

'Um- I-I've found someone as well. It's a man and, well, two of you know him very well.'

'Who is he?' Molly asked, jumping up and down from excitement.

'Mycroft Holmes.'

John and Molly almost jumped onto Greg, happy for him, but Sherlock remained in the background. He just smiled. 'So you did listen to me. Congratulations with your little goldfish, brother dear.'

Mycroft's face briefly appeared in their fireplace. 'Thank you, Sherlock.' He smiled and then dissapeared again, before anyone else noticed him.

Sherlock looked at the scene in front of him, where he could only recognise John in the ball of limbs by his tail, which he still kept - not that he had much choice - in memory of the first time they saved each other's lives. He smiled. Yes, this was where he wanted to die. Loved by John, friends with Molly and Greg as his brother-in-law. For once, he felt loved and was grateful for it.

 

 

 

 

**THE END**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got some 'thank you's to give.  
> Winchester221B, you helped me start this and work out a good storyline, only to trust me to write it in a good way. I love you.  
> Some of my most loyal readers who not only left kudo's but also left multiple comments, I really appreciate it!  
> And of course YOU, for reading this and hanging on until the very end.  
> I'm still looking for help picking my next big idea, but for that I refer to the notes from the last two chapters (I'm not typing everything again).  
> Thank you for reading, kudo'ing and commenting, and maybe see you again at the next story!  
> I love you!  
> xx Mycroffed
> 
> EDIT 14-10: THIS FANFIC HIT 2000 HITS OMG THANK YOU *freaking out* I'LL POST A NEW STORY SOON TO CELEBRATE I'M WORKING ON A MARTONY ONESHOT BEFORE I START THE NEXT BIG THING! Ajdjfhdisosk


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